


The Mouse

by RedCharcoal



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-16
Updated: 2016-05-12
Packaged: 2018-04-04 18:30:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 36,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4148376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedCharcoal/pseuds/RedCharcoal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vera goes over to Joan's home to explain she had nothing to do with the pictures of the prisoner Jianna papered all over her office (S3E11). Of course nothing is ever straightforward with these two.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iwoofjaneway](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=iwoofjaneway).



"It wasn't me," Vera Bennett said the moment her imposing boss opened the door to her home that evening. She willed her voice to remain steady. "I would never be so cruel. And I think you know that."

Governor Joan Ferguson stared down at her, eyes dark and burning, anger making them glint in the low light. The mistrust on Joan's features hurt more than the throb of the red hand print on Vera's cheek or the false accusation. As if she would have spent hours on the previous night shift plastering pictures of some unknown prisoner all over her boss's office. Vera had better things to do with her time.

At least she liked to think she did.

"Why are you here?" The older woman's voice was low and dangerous. She stepped forward, leaning out her door, deliberately menacing Vera with her towering height.

"S-so you'd know the truth." Wide brown eyes looked up. "I'm sorry about what happened."

"Are you?" Joan asked, eyes raking her from tip to toe. "Mm." She turned. "Come. I will not discuss this matter on my doorstep."

Vera entered her home for only the second time since she'd known her. Last time had been a disastrous meal that ended in accusations of disloyalty and painful revelations. Nothing had ever been the same between them since.

The neatness of the stark furnishings was absent this time. A stack of unaligned papers filtered half from a chair and into a pile on the floor. Shoes were kicked off by the door. Joan wore only socks, black. They matched the black of her uniform pants which she still wore. Incongruously, a beautiful violin lay smashed in the corner behind the door, its back broken.

A gold fish bowl she'd noticed last time was absent.

Vera watched as Joan strode to the kitchen and retrieved a vodka bottle and two glasses from the freezer. She poured drinks for them both. She didn't ask whether Vera wanted one, too. Refusal apparently was not an option.

She took the proffered glass, hesitating as she swirled the liquid once around, watching the vortex. The acidic, clean bite of this Eastern European staple had never been her drink. Dark eyes were pinned on hers. Waiting. Watching.

Vera swallowed, the icy sharpness hitting the back of her throat and she forced herself not to gag.

Her struggle did not go unnoticed. Joan gave a slow, cat-like smirk. "I see you're more adaptable than I gave you credit for," she purred then led them to the couch.

Vera placed the shot glass on a lamp table by her elbow, curious as to what Joan would do when she ignored the glossy coaster. Joan stared at the condensation pooling on the timber surface beneath the glass.

"You wish to play games?" she asked roughly. "As if I haven't already had enough of them today?"

"Who is she?" Vera blurted. "The woman in the photos?"

Pain flashed across Joan's face, an agonising tear of anguish, but it was gone in an instant. Shuttered. Arctic coolness stared back at Vera.

"You really don't know?" she accused. "I find that difficult to believe."

Her deputy shook her head. "Someone close to you, obviously? Someone you cared for?"

Joan's lip curled. "Blackmail is such a tawdry weapon, Vera. I'd have expected something better from you."

Vera's eyes widened. " _Blackmail_? Governor, I'm just concerned about you."

"Unlikely." Her eyes flicked to the red streak garishly raised against Vera's pale cheek.

"You doubt my sincerity?" Vera's jaw worked. "After _everything_ I've done to defend you with them. I'm such a fool." She rose. "I almost didn't come here tonight. I thought, 'What's the point? She's made up her mind'. But idiot that I am I thought I should let you know it wasn't me. That it would _never_ be me. Don't you get that? Can't you see?"

Joan stared coolly at her, waiting for the words to cease flowing, for Vera to feel foolish. It didn't take long. She took a step back. And another. She glanced at the door.

"No." The word was stern, brooking no argument.

"Excuse me?" Vera said, hating how her voice squeaked.

"No. You will not leave. Not now, not like this. Is that plain enough for you?"

"Why? You clearly think I'm some ... 'pathetic mouse' who deserves to be hit!"

"Playing the victim doesn't suit you, Vera." She crossed her legs and studied her. "You know I admired you the most when you led from the front. When you _attacked_."

Vera's mouth dropped open. She never attacked. Never.

"Your mother," Joan added the missing clue with a small curl of her lip. "Such a tragedy, yes?"

Vera's cheeks flooded with colour. "That... that was an..."

" _Accident_?" Joan supplied. "Oh I'm quite certain that it wasn't." Her smile widened and the gleam became malicious. "And more power to you that it wasn't. So tell me little mouse, who are you really?"

"I-I am afraid I really don't understand the question."

"Sit back down."

Vera crossed the distance in three steps, sitting across from her. Cursing herself inwardly for being so compliant.

"I'm asking you to choose sides," Joan said, not taking her eyes off her. "Now, you will tell me - who did this outrage to my walls, my inner sanctum, if it wasn't you?"

Vera bit her lip. "I'll answer that if you tell me who she was, Governor. The woman in the photo."

Joan pursed her mouth. "I see. Well. You're learning, I'll give you that. More vodka?"

Both their eyes tracked to the still almost full glass now with a puddle of condensation under it.

"I'm fine."

Joan studied her deputy. "Her name was Jianna. She was a prisoner at the jail I worked in in Brisbane. Does that shock you?"

"Does what shock me?"

Joan sighed. "I know you are neither simple nor slow, Vera. I had an emotional response earlier today to a prisoner's photo plastered all over the walls to my office. Clearly a prisoner _affected_ me. Profoundly. So - does that shock you."

Vera licked her lips anxiously, uncertain how to answer. "I'm not sure. What did you and the prisoner, ah, do together?"

At this Joan suddenly looked down at her hands, then abruptly placed her own glass on the table. For a moment she said nothing and Vera wasn't entirely sure she was going to speak again. Until she did.

"Jianna and I were in love." Her eyes snapped up, daring Vera to say ... _what_? That she was horrified? Revolted?

"Oh," she said instead. "I see."

Joan took a sip of vodka, eyes narrowing. "So now you will tell me - who did this to me?"

Vera frowned. "I'm not sure. It's someone who doesn't like me, someone who was happy for me to take the fall. So not Fletch. Uh ... Mr Fletcher."

"Ah yes, _Mr_ _Fletcher_..." Her lip turned into a snarl. "Are you two still ... _cosy_ together?"

"I really don't see how that is any of your business," Vera snapped primly.

"Everything in my prison is my business. Answer the question." Her fingers thrummed against the armrest impatiently.

"No Governor," Vera conceded. "And I ... regret we ever..." She petered out, her ears turning pink. "I have regrets."

"I'll bet you do." The voice was mocking.

Vera glared at her in outrage. "Y-you don't get to have the high moral ground here! You fucked a prisoner!"

The Governor was out of her seat with frightening speed, her frame engulfing Vera, leaning over her, hand raised, eyes wild with rage. "There was no 'FUCKING', as you crudely put it." Her hand trembled with the restraint of not slapping Vera again. Her fingers twitched.

Vera stared back at her, struck dumb by the coiled fury inches from her.

"It was _love_ ," Joan whispered, sagging.

Her hand dropped and unflexed. "Love. And she died."

Vera caught the hand about to inflict such violence on her and squeezed it.

"I see. I'm sorry, Joan," she said, whispering. She stroked her hand. "So, very sorry."

The first tear that splashed down Joan's face was shocking. The second one, Vera lifted her fingers up, dusting them away.

"Pathetic little mouse," Joan mumbled, slumping forward, until Vera caught her, stroking her back, soothing. "I'm sorry, too."


	2. Power

Joan Ferguson put a pot on the stove, heating the low-fat milk gently. She took a step back and studied the gas flame, eyes pensive. There was something about it, something about the dancing flicker that seemed hypnotising.

She glanced out the kitchen window to her balcony garden. It had taken months of careful attention and cultivation to get it to look the way it did. Asparagus ferns, delicate, wispy featherings of leaves fell over the edge of her array of hanging pots, blanketing the red-brick walls. White concrete planter boxes (plastic was too plebeian, too cheap) were filled with a profusion of different shades of green. And, in the middle, sprung up a single, vivid purple flower. An African violet.

Joan had always loved the exotic plant. _Saintapaulia ionantha_. She knew one had to water them from the bottom – to never allow moisture on the leaves. They did not enjoy being clogged, pulled down by water. Nothing on the surface, which had to remain dust free at all times. Clean.

Joan Ferguson's African violets always thrived.

There was a movement out of the corner of her eye and Joan turned to look over to her couch. Her deputy governor had spent the night. It had been too late after Joan's … unfortunate emotional display … and the other woman had looked at her with those sad, wide eyes. So - Joan had placed a pillow and blanket on the wide couch, saying nothing, backing away, gesturing to it with an awkward expression.

Vera had smiled gratefully and plumped it. And that had been that.

Discussions of showers and towels and bathrooms and fridges and all the attendant issues that generally go with guests had not been had. Joan had turned on heel and left without a word. Well - it had been her deputy's choice to stay. She would either fathom the facilities on her own or not.

Joan turned the milk down to low and poured it into a mug, adding hot chocolate and a sprinkle of nutmeg. She added exactly half a teaspoon of sugar.

It was an indulgent drink, one designed to warm and comfort. Certain people were more likely than others to require such sustenance. It was certainly a weakness. Joan generally preferred the bitter bite of black, unsweetened coffee.

She walked into the lounge and placed the mug on the coffee table, examining the woman curled up before her in the foetal position on her sofa. Impossibly young in respite. Indecently so. A part of her, the animal part that loved innocence in all its delicious shades, purred at that thought. Her eye slid from the contours of shoulder and breast, covered only by the wisp of a pale blue camisole, and Joan's sturdy utilitarian grey blanket. Her uniform lay folded neatly on the floor.

The smell of the hot chocolate caused the blue eyes to open.

For a moment the women did not speak, but stared, taking in each other's measure.

"I thought you might like …" Joan waved at the mug. "An old family recipe."

Vera sat up, the blanket pooling down to her waist. Her small breasts pressed firmly against the camisole as she leaned forward offering Joan a sleepy smile. The view was more than a little inviting. Joan sat on the edge of the coffee table and leaned back on one arm, watching.

Vera examined the drink, sniffed it, her eyes widening in appreciation. "Hot chocolate?" she crooned, cupping it. "I love that."

_Of course she did._

Joan licked her lips as the soft throat in front of her swallowed and Vera arched her neck.

The Governor's eyes slid back up to the jaw, then higher, to the downy cheek, with a small crease on it from how she'd been lying.

She frowned. Leaned forward, fingertips dusting the cheek.

"It's bruised," she said in dissatisfaction, tracing the marks where she'd brutally slapped her the day before.

"You have a lot of power," Vera murmured. "Perhaps more than you realise."

Joan traced the faint discoloration with her fingertips. "Power is an important thing to understand," she noted. "I think you are just beginning to understand it."

Vera's hand came up, capturing Joan's fingers with hers, and pulling the hand down.

"Don't."

Joan cocked her eyebrow.

"Don't talk about power when you touch me like that."

Joan eyed her curiously. "Like what, my dear?"

"Like you mean it. When we both know you toy with me. I'm you're little pet."

Hurt blue eyes studied her. "Do you know what that feels like? To have someone you respect hit you, accuse you of betrayal. And then touch you like you matter? I-I… it's confusing. It's awful actually."

The light from the sun rising just over the balcony hit her abruptly and Joan turned her head, squinting against it.

She heard Vera swallow and glanced back to see her place her now empty mug on the table before them. She seemed sad. Lost. A condition Joan found decidedly unsatisfactory.

"You think you don't matter?" Joan asked her. "You believe that I let just anyone sleep in my home. Make anyone hot chocolate to their _exact_ specifications."

"Exact specifications?" Vera repeated, confusion washing her features.

"Warmed low-fat milk, double chocolate but only half a teaspoon of sugar. Because you secretly want two teaspoons but feel that would be too indulgent. So half is perfect. Even so you'll deny yourself some snack at lunchtime to make up for it because you feel guilty. You always feel guilty, don't you Vera. Hmm?"

Vera stared at her in astonishment. "How do you…"

Joan's eyes gleamed, pleased at the surprise. "I know you better than you know yourself. Why do you suppose that is, deputy?"

Her hand gave Vera's fingers a firm squeeze, where they still lay tangled between them.

"Because you're observant," Vera suggested.

"But why? Why am I observant?" Joan asked, tilting her chin up, pinning her with a steely gaze. "Why does this matter?"

"Knowledge is power," Vera tried.

"No. No, no, no Vera. _Control_ is power. Knowledge is a means to getting it. You will need to know these things if you want to be Governor some day."

Vera stared at her with incredulity. "Yet you said yourself no one will want me for Governor if I have Hep C."

"And you believed me," Joan snorted. She patted her hand. "You are too trusting of the surface. You must be cleverer than this. Another failing we must overcome if you are to be ready."

The sun caught her eye again and she glared at it. "Too bright," she muttered.

"What is?"

"The sun." Joan turned. "You can't possibly not see that…"

She faded out and realised Vera was looking at her oddly.

"I don't want to be you, Governor," she said.

"Don't be ridiculous, Vera, of course you do. With such limitless power you can have everything."

"What though? What is _everything_?"

Joan peered at her, wondering at how foolish her pupil could be at times. "Control. Control is everything."

She moved her fingers to Vera's jaw, sliding them around, cupping her face. "With absolute control, you can do anything. And no one will ever get in your way."

Vera stared at her. Eyes piercing her. "What do you want from me? Just tell me that. Please." The voice took on a begging quality. The sound Joan had always found most arousing.

"Isn't that obvious?"

Her fingers tightened against the back of Vera's head, drawing her closer, eyes gleaming with danger and promise. "It's time. Time my Little Mouse roared."

* * *

"Governor?"

Vera turned to see a bored-looking older woman in a white jacket studying her.

"Yes?"

"The patient is ready to see you."

"How's she been this week?"

"The usual. Moments of lucidity. She hallucinates a lot. Talks to people who aren't there. She mentions you quite a bit. Long conversations with you."

Vera nodded. "I see."

The nurse rose. "After you."

Vera headed down a now-familiar path to Room 1072 of the Brookfield Institute for Mental Wellbeing.

"Ms Ferguson," the nurse asked far too brightly, with a voice dripping in condescension. Both women studied the form sitting on a bunk bed staring fixedly at the wall. "Governor Bennett is here to see you."

The patient ignored her. The nurse shrugged. "Better you than me." She left, closing the door at Vera's nod.

Vera sat on the end of the bed, trying not to squint in the face of the room's harsh, bright lighting. The flickering fluorescent light seemed to drown the room in white.

Joan continued to stare at the wall, her immense frame somehow looking smaller, shrunken in the Brookfield-issue grey tracksuit.

"What are you looking at?" Vera asked her, as those potent eyes roamed the mortar.

"My garden," Joan said, a hint of a smile nudging the edges of her lips. "African violets. They look beautiful today, do they not?"

"Yes Governor," Vera replied.

Joan turned. "Vera. Where were we?"

Vera regarded her with sad eyes. "Remind me," she said softly. "I've forgotten."

Joan's smile widened into something catlike and triumphant. "Power," she hissed. "I was explaining to you all about power. Its acquisition. And retention."

"Then by all means," Vera said, gently taking her hand and stroking it. "Begin."


	3. Secrets of the Sun

**CHAPTER THREE: SECRETS OF THE SUN**

Joan Ferguson was staring at the sun. The one thing they told you as a child you should never do or you'll go blind. Yet, here she was doing it, and not going blind. So. Something was very wrong with this picture.

She moved away from her kitchen window, confused. Even with her back to it, it was still far too bright. There was something else, something tapping away at her mind but she couldn't quite remember. Why couldn't she remember?

Through the fog she heard her voice and turned.

"Governor? It's me. Thought I'd check in on you this week."

_Ah. Her mouse. Her little mouse was back._

Vera Bennett was suddenly before her, looking immaculate, all starch and hope melded together in dark prison blues.

"You look very dashing today, Vera," she told her, lips curving upwards. She enjoyed the way the younger woman's eyes lit up at the rare compliment.

_So easy._

"Thanks Governor." Vera's eyes roamed Joan's form and she looked down, suddenly self-conscious. Her eyes widened at what she found.

"I apologise, I seem to be ... under the weather," Joan said, frowning at a most unattractive grey tracksuit she was clad in. _When had she bought this hideous construct? And why? It was neither beautiful nor imposing – so it lacked any purpose whatsoever._

"That's OK," Vera shrugged. "We all have our, um, bad days."

Joan's head snapped over to consider her deputy. That tone – it sounded awfully like sympathy. Which would be absurd. If anyone needed pitying around here it was not Joan Ferguson.

"What were you doing when I came in?" Vera asked, changing the subject. "You were squinting."

"The sun bothers me," Joan muttered, still confused by her attire. "I don't understand why it's so bright in here."

She felt a small hand wrap around her own and she glanced at it in surprise.

"What if I told you it wasn't the sun? What if I said you were indoors, and it's an interior light that bothers you?"

"I have no light in my home _this_ bright," Joan protested at the ludicrous reply. "I would hurl it over the balcony if I did!"

Vera laughed. "I have no doubt, Governor."

The tinkling sound struck Joan as delightful. She relaxed and exhaled. It suddenly seemed like far too long since she'd heard laughter. She wondered why that was. The thought gnawed away at her.

"How long?" she asked pensively.

"Governor?"

"How long have I been off work, sick? Forced into these lamentable clothes?" She looked at her deputy anxiously. "Do you know?"

"It's been three months now," Vera said. "You've been unwell for three months."

Joan started, unable to mask her shock. "Three _months_?"

She looked around at her kitchen, her lounge – everything seemed immaculate. Even her goldfish looked well on the far side of the room. Even though she had no recent memory of feeding it. In fact …

A memory flashed through her mind of her on her knees, amid water and shattered glass. Her fish gasping for air in front of her. Dying at her own hand. _I'm a freak, I'm a freak..._

"What's wrong with me?" she gasped. Why had she hurt her fish? Why would she _ever_ …

"You had a ... a mental breakdown," Vera said carefully. "The day after ... after you slapped me."

"NO," Joan said forcefully. "That's not what happened at all! I have a _clear_ memory of that day. I woke up. I watered my African violet. I saw you asleep. You were on my couch, with my blanket. I made you hot chocolate. The way you like it. Two teaspoons of chocolate. Half a teaspoon of sugar…"

She faded out, suddenly unsure of what had occurred even an hour after that. She had no memory of Vera leaving. No memory of going to work herself. Nothing.

The soft hands tangled in her fingers gave them a squeeze.

"That's not how it happened," Vera said gently. "You have never made me hot chocolate. Although I admit I'm surprised you know how I like it."

"But I remember doing it!" 

"And _I_ remember things differently." Vera studied her closely. "The previous night, I came over to see you, I explained I had not been responsible for the photos. All over your wall at work."

"I…" Joan stared at her, a strangling sensation closing around her. A sick foreboding stirred her stomach. "Photos?"

"Of Jianna," Vera whispered. "You slapped me. You thought I betrayed you. Do you remember?"

 _Jianna_? How could her little mouse know about Jianna.

Joan shook her head. "I don't know what you're talking about," she hissed. "And if it's your intention to use baseless rumours and vile innuendo against me, to to take my position, then you have made a foolish error! And a fearsome enemy!"

Her hands were squeezed again.

"Governor," Vera said softly. "That night I went to your home to tell you I had not betrayed you and that I never would. But after that…"

She faded out and swallowed.

"What?" Joan peered at her.

"You got upset. I hugged you and then you kissed me," Vera said. A pretty pinkness crept up her neck. "We were intimate."

Joan felt heat rush to her cheeks at the mental images her deputy had invoked. She searched her eyes for the truth or signs of a lie and found nothing but sincerity. Why couldn't she remember _that_?

"And the next day I woke up and made you hot chocolate?" Joan tried, desperate to stitch together her disparate memories. There were jagged like shattered glass from different windows. Nothing fit.

"The next day I was gone before you woke," Vera corrected. "The next day we met again at work and you looked right through me as though you didn't even see me. Later that day there was a fire. They said you started it and you killed an inmate to save Anderson's baby. They said you had done many more criminal acts. They took you here, to the Brookfield Institute for Mental Wellbeing."

Joan shook her head. "Lies." She snatched her hand away and pointed up. "I'm in my home. I can see the sun! It's _right_ _there_."

"Governor," Vera said firmly, "You're pointing at the light in your cell. It's too bright in here because it's a fluorescent light. I have already spoken to the institute's director about getting you a less powerful wattage."

Vera considered her regretfully. "I'm so sorry. About everything."

Joan stared at the ceiling, squinting at the light. Slowly, ever so slowly, instead of the fuzzy yellow haze, she saw edges, a rectangle, and then white. A light fitting. A fluorescent light fitting. The light coalesced into a long tube. Her eyes dropped and she snapped her head around to every corner of her room.

"I'm in a cell!" she hissed, staring in accusation at Vera. Her eyes flashed. "They put ME in a CELL!"

Vera edged herself away from the bed and rose. "Yes, Joan. You are here because you were ruled unfit to stand trial. You're here indefinitely."

Joan froze. She slid assessing eyes over her deputy's face. "You called me _Joan_ just now. You never did that before." Her eyes narrowed. Her tone lowered to dangerous. "If I'm in here, I'm no longer Governor. So, tell me - who is?"

Vera walked to the door, opening it. She turned. "I'm sorry."

"YOU?!"

"I have to go. Until next week."

"YOU! How could they give you MY job! You're a pathetic little mouse!"

Vera gave her one last wry look. She shook her head sadly.

"Yes. So you tell me every week."

* * *

Joan Ferguson awoke before dawn. The tell-tale clang of the breakfast cart had yet to make its away along the corridor. She sat up and considered her surroundings. Still here. Her nostrils flared as the faintly stale tang of recycled air revolted her lungs.

She slid to her feet and began to stretch. She knew it was important to keep onself fit when in a battle for survival. She began her usual routine – a mixture of Tai Chi and yoga disciplines that had served her well on the outside for years. Her balance, co-ordination, flexibility and core power were tested incrementally for the next hour. Just as the beads of sweat were sliding down her temple, her hair matted with moisture, she heard the first clangs of the meals cart.

She cocked her head. The left rear wheel was out of alignment, if she wasn't mistaken. She slid back into bed, pulling the covers back up to her shoulders, and waited.

Fifteen minutes later, her sweat dried, her face cool once more, the heavy clunk of a bolt being slid open signalled the arrival of Brookfield Institute for Mental Wellbeing's breakfast purveyor.

"Hey wake up, Ferguson," a beefy female voice muttered.

Joan rolled over sluggishly and rubbed her eyes as she considered her rotund wait staff.

"Those drugs really knock you around, huh?"

A heavyset woman barely contained by her too-tight green uniform put a tray of somewhat edible matter on the floor in front of her. A small plastic cup was waggled in front of Joan's face.

"Speaking of drugs. Doc's orders. Two blues and a green today."

Orderly Simacek waited as Joan slowly grasped the cup. She was watched closely as she placed the pills in her mouth, and took a mouthful of water, and swallowed.

"Good girl," Simacek said. "Now the food."

Joan felt her jaw ache with the effort of biting back a retort at being called 'girl' by a rude creature some two decades her junior. She dutifully lifted the tray from the floor to her bed and, painfully slowly, began to fork what appeared to be scrambled eggs into her mouth. She counted to fifty before she swallowed the initial tiny bite.

"Always the same with you, isn't it, Ferguson. Slow as a goddamned wet weekend. I could lap the whole bloody building in the time it takes for you to eat half your chow."

Joan ignored the comment and counted slowly to fifty as she masticated on the second mouthful. The woman's building rage was amusing enough but not the point.

"Fact I might as well lap the building," the orderly complained. "You don't exactly look even halfway compos mentis enough to palm the plastic cutlery." She laughed at her own joke. And, as was always the way when boredom struck this particular orderly, Simacek stuck her head out into the hall and looked around, catching the eye of the cleaner trundling a bucket and mop past on his usual rounds.

The moment Simacek's back was turned Joan slid two blues and one green pill from under her tongue and hid them in her pillowcase.

Simacek eyed her over her shoulder. "Christ Ferguson. How long does it take a person to eat four forks full of watered down slops? There are other people I got to feed. You are _the_ worst."

Joan tilted her head up and studied the orderly, from the tips of her greasy brown hair to the ageing off-white sneakers.

"Don't let me keep you," she mumbled, deliberately slurring her words just a little.

The orderly hissed under her breath. "Ha fuckin' ha. Retard."

Joan paused chewing. Then swallowed. She forced herself not to look up lest the murderous glint was evident in her eye. An eye most definitely no longer stupefied by drugs. She hadn't allowed herself to become so again, from the moment Vera had revealed the crushing truth on that rare day of lucidity.

A hand reached out and snatched the tray from her and slapped it back on the trolley. "OK, you're done, smart ass."

The door clanged shut and the bolt locked into place moments later. Joan sat against the wall, on her bed, and listened as the wonky left rear wheel continued along its way. Simacek would pay. In time.

She contemplated her plans for the rest of the day. It was a Wednesday, if the meticulous markings she kept on her door frame were any indication. It was the most tolerable day of the week. She was allowed an hour's exercise in the yard. Lunch did not entail a gristle and gravy-based substance it did most other days. And her little mouse would come to visit.

Joan Ferguson smiled. Her eyes sparkled, clear and bright.

_This time would be different._


	4. The Mouse That Roared

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Freakytitters, I haven't forgotten you. Just had to get the awesome lesbian novel published. Which it is now! Hooray. Check out The Red Files by Lee Winter on Amazon if you're interested. Anyway, I give you Ch4. Please enjoy.

The thing to know before planning anything at all, is knowing your desired outcome. Your _exact_ desired outcome. And knowing the perfect pieces on the chessboard to get you there. Joan Ferguson waited patiently as the door to her cell at Brookfield Institute for Mental Wellbeing unlocked. She assumed a rare and unfamiliar slouch against the grey blanket tucked with military corners on the worn, thin mattress.

She heard soft footsteps. Her mouse was here.

Joan regarded her visitor. _Governor_ Bennett. She tasted the title on her tongue, deciding its acidic bite was not quite enough to cause her stomach to roll.

The other woman watched her, gaze steady, as they took each other's measure.

"You look better, Governor," Vera said quietly.

"Now, now, Vera," Joan said, "we both know whose title that really belongs to."

Vera's eyebrows rose in surprise. "You really are better."

"Not being drugged does wonders for one's mental capacity. I highly recommend it."

"I told them not to. I said you wouldn't want that. When they first brought you in."

"It is unfortunate that your powers of persuasion aren't as compelling as I might hope."

Vera considered her uncertainly and Joan smiled at her confusion.

She reviewed her situation. She supposed others might assume her goal would be to escape from this fetid little concrete hell of sloppy yellow meals on trolleys and drugs in cups. But, no, not so. That was merely a side effect of what she had planned. For escape without freedom would be meaningless. What good would it do to be beyond the walls if she was still hunted? She shifted from her slumped position of feigned indifference and snapped into sitting upright. She regarded her little mouse. Then patted the bed beside her.

"I am not to be toyed with," Joan explained with a disagreeable look. "And these people," she flicked her hand towards the door, "are trying my patience. I did not intend to take my dissatisfaction out on you. Now tell me, did they find the cause?"

"Cause?" Vera blinked.

"Of the fire? Certain memories have returned. I vividly recall that I smelt smoke and fused wires as I entered the supply area that night. Surely the investigators found what sparked it?"

There was a silence as Vera clearly weighed up Joan's sincerity. The former Governor evened out her features into an expression she hoped approached concern.

"Come now, Vera," she implored, "Please put my mind at rest."

"G-gov... Joan. They think _you_ did it." She twiddled her fingers in her lap. Small, nimble little fingers.

Joan frowned. "That is absurd. We both know my primary concern has always been for Wentworth. And why on earth would I start a fire _I_ almost died in?"

Vera shook her head, the doubt starting to etch her features. A pleasing expression if ever Joan had seen one.

"Exactly," Joan said. She tapped her lip. "There was a fuse box, near where I was trapped. The smoke seemed denser there. Thicker. You should start the investigation there. Yes?"

At her former deputy's continued silence, Joan sighed. "How is it possible that you of all people could believe me capable of incinerating _one_ of the things I care most about in this world?"

She let her eyes drift slowly to the soft, pale pink lips and let herself wonder what it would be like to take custody of them. She'd apparently done that once. She cursed her lack of memory of it because she suspected she'd quite like to find out whether her little mouse was a gasper or a moaner.

Soft little squeaks, quite possibly. A research endeavor for another time, most certainly.

A faint blush was dusting its way up Vera's neck and Joan knew her vague allusion to caring had done its duty.

"I will ask the investigator to look at the fuse box," Vera murmured.

"Excellent." Joan smiled encouragingly. This time her eyes took in the smooth curve of a pale neck. She licked her lips. A bruising scrape of teeth down that delicate skin could be quite intoxicating.

The blush was deepening along the brunette's cheeks and Joan wondered at how so much innocence could inhabit any soul in their line of work spent corralling society's underbelly.

"It is so hard being without the things one has come to appreciate," Joan added slowly. Her eyes dropped to the shiny name tag on Vera's uniform, glinting in the fluorescent light. Then down a little. One burnished button at a time. She recalled the slide of her fingertips against her own buttons every morning and evening. A satisfying tactile sensation she would always relish.

"I find, perhaps, I might have been in error in taking certain things for granted." Joan's smile was positively feline this time. She watched, satisfied, as Vera swallowed.

"It's something I can correct, however," she mused and leaned back, regarding Vera, closing her eyes to mere slits. The aching in her head which had been troubling her for hours immediately dulled. That cursed light still hurt.

Vera was staring at her in confusion. "Correct? How?"

"It's the real reason you visit me."

"What?" Vera looked confounded.

 _Delicious_.

"Of course the reason you tell yourself you come is that you feel sorry for me. That you once looked up to me. And it's your duty to make sure I'm being treated adequately. It's a conscience salve. Yes?"

Vera eyed her, faintly startled.

"As to the real reason…" Joan tilted her head. "You need me to tell you what to do."

" _No!_ "

"You felt so safe with my strict, cold hand of authority running Wentworth. You miss it. And you miss me. Even just being this close to me, you feel better already."

"Governor." Vera shook her head.

"There it is again," Joan noted. "You can't even stop giving me your title. Part of you feels a fraud. You think you don't deserve it, you're not up to it, but you know who is? Me."

"That's insane!" Vera's eyes flashed in warning. "Just like you!"

She bit her lip in immediate apology. "Oh, God, I'm so sorry…"

"Hmmm," Joan said, evenly. "Why so enraged, Vera, if I'm just another mentally unfit soul in an asylum full of them? Why not just dismiss it as the crazed ramblings they are? Unless - I'm right?"

"No!" Vera said. "The board, it voted, and they said it was unanimous. They asked for me."

"And no one else applied?" Joan purred. "No one else wanted the cursed job that has unseated three governors in two years. One killed; one's reputation destroyed; one locked away."

Vera stared at her. Outrage reflected from her eyes.

"Hmm," Joan murmured. "Truth hurts. Still, we both know running a prison is not easy. I know some things, things that would take decades of experience to learn. I could help you. Be your mentor once more. If you'll let me."

"I really don't think..." Vera began, eyes flashing. "I..."

"Bea Smith will have a challenger to her authority. A new top dog in the making. Are you ready for that?"

" _What?_ " The gasp was tiny but the recognition of truth was there. In her eyes. Joan felt the thrill of the chase.

"You think I need to be told what happens when Smith's only rival gets paroled? Prisons don't like dictatorships, they like rivalries, mongooses and snakes hissing and twisting about in mortal combat. It makes the prisoners feel that they have a choice. They. Do. Not."

She leaned close to Vera, so close they were virtually sipping the same breaths. She could detect the faint odor of citrus scented shampoo. "Be sure, very sure, you get to the new contender first."

"What makes you so sure such a person even exists?"

"She exists," Joan said with a hiss of certainty. "She _always_ exists. Bring me her name, her file would be better, of course, and I will tell you how to control her."

Vera blinked, and Joan watched as the wheels turned in that obstinate head of her little mouse.

"Kaz. Kaz Proctor."

Joan's eyes narrowed. "The Red Right Hand? Man hater? Violent temper?"

Vera nodded.

"Her file, Vera. Bring me that and you will never have to wonder what the prisoners are up to again."

"I don't think it's legal that I just..."

Joan exhaled with a snarl of air forced from between her teeth. It sounded like a snap in the still cell. "Then you will _never_ feel safe again. Control requires the _best information_ you have, placing the _best resources_ you have in the _best position_ at any given time. It's _chess_ , Vera. Chess with vicious little teeth. Do you understand?"

Vera started to answer and then stopped.

"You're in here for a reason," she said suddenly as though just remembering exactly who she was dealing with.

Joan sighed inwardly. _Was it so damned difficult for everyone to just do what she required of them the first time? Was this a democracy, for God's sake?_

Vera arched away from her. "You hurt people," she accused. "You twist them and manipulate them. Like you're doing with me right now. Everything's a scheme to you. You hurt Fletch. You wanted him dead."

Joan waved her hand. "Vera..."

"No! You don't get to wave that away." She stood and her brown eyes flashed. So worked up. Her pert chest rose and fell. Joan observed it with more than passing interest, feeling yet another pang about that one particular gap in her memory.

"You don't get to call the shots, either," Vera said heatedly. "You're not the Governor anymore! _I am!_ "

 _The mouse who roared._ Joan allowed her eyebrow to hike. "Yes," she drawled. "That _is_ what your name tag says."

She looked on as Vera took four furious steps to the door, a tightly wound state of high dudgeon. She watched through slitted eyes as the door opened, marveling her head no longer hurt at all.

"The _file_ , Vera," she said calmly, almost indulgently, just before the door crashed closed.

She heard the echoey "dink-dink-dink" of angry heels stalking off. _The perfect little chessboard piece._

"I will see you next week," Joan whispered to herself, a knowing smile curling around her lips. " _With_ the file."


	5. Cat 1, Mouse 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, sorry for disappearing off the face of the earth. My second novel, Requiem for Immortals, an assassin/prey freakytits AU, is nearing deadline and I had to prod my literary alter ego, Lee Winter, into life to work on it. I'll be back on the other side of that deadline.

Vera's lips thinned as she stood in front of patient 83's door. She straightened. It was always like this. She had such plans to hold her ground, and not have the tables turned and within minutes, suddenly this was Joan's game. Even half medicated and hallucinating, Joan Ferguson still made it her game.

And now, here Vera was, clutching the folder that should never have left Wentworth's offices, hoping her former boss might hold the secrets to the universe. Or at least the secrets to governing a prison. Same thing, really. Chaos amid the veneer of control. Not that Vera had thought it would be easy, but to discover all the balls Joan had juggled so expertly, to make it appear effortless, had been an eye opener.

And that was before she got to the women inhabiting the prison's underbelly. And the new woman in particular.

She waited while the nurse unlocked the door, and stepped inside. She nodded to her and heard the distinctive clunk and scrape as it closed. The light was less bright now; someone had apparently finally implemented her request for a lower wattage fluorescent light in Joan's cell.

The first thing she saw was the smile. White teeth, neatly, nay perfectly, aligned, flashed in greeting. Amused. Because of course, _of course_ , the mouse had come scurrying back. Just as Joan predicted.

Vera dropped her folder on the bed, as vehemently as she could, because to hell she would look compliant. Docile.

It didn't make any kind of angry slap she would have preferred and the glint in patient 83's eyes told her she was being laughed at. Silently. As always.

She exhaled. Some things never change.

She studied the bed as she tried to regain her composure - looking nervous or embarrassed wouldn't do. How Joan could produce such precise military corners from such a care-worn cot was a mystery for the ages. She'd have to ask later.  
  
Joan was sitting, cross-legged, on her lumpy mattress like some mocking parody of a yoga guru. Her long hair, still sleek with greying streaks, hung loose.  
  
"Why, _Governor_ ," Joan enunciated slowly. "What a pleasant surprise." She drawled out the word "surprise", indicating it was anything but.  
  
Vera's nostrils flared in irritation. Instead of replying, she pushed the folder across the blanket to her. Karen Proctor's name was on the tab.  
  
Joan took it, slowly flipping it open. A picture of the blonde's hard face and cool eyes taken at Processing stared back.  
  
"So angry," Joan noted, half to herself. "This one is furious."  
  
"I think that's obvious," Vera said. "I mean just about every crime against every man Proctor has perpetrated has also been ruled a hate crime."  
  
Joan flicked her a quelling look. "Not angry at others, at _herself_." She tapped the file and then turned the page. "She was somebody's little pet once; somebody's toy. Her trust was broken, her love thrown back in her face, rejected. She was hurt and bitterly resents herself for not reacting as she thought she should." She flipped another few pages.  
  
"Ah. Her boyfriend. Battered to death. The man had multiple priors for domestic violence, yet she was with him for four years. It's unlikely he didn't turn his violence on her. Hmm..." she turned another page, "the timing is interesting. Don't you see?"  
  
She pivoted the folder 180 degrees and waited. "Well?"  
  
Vera took in the date, trying to see what it was Joan could spot so effortlessly. She just saw numbers. Places. Nothing special. Feeling foolish, she shook her head.  
  
Joan tsked at her in disappointment and closed the file with a pointed slap.  
  
"Have you succeeded in getting an investigation opened into the proper cause of the fire?" she demanded. "I trust you no longer believe the absurdity that I would incinerate my own ... baby."  
  
She bit out the last word as thought it brought an unpleasant association.  
  
Vera blinked, then looked at the now closed file. Then back at Joan. _Was this some sort of tit-for-tat thing?_  
  
"What did the date mean?" Vera tried.  
  
Joan said nothing, and brushed her thigh, divesting it of invisible lint. As if Joan would allow actual lint to intrude on her garments. Perish the thought.  
  
The moments ticked by. Vera glanced around. She could see more order in this little room than before. Several books, neatly aligned, but she couldn't make out their titles. Only a patient with privileges was allowed books, so Vera imagined that meant she was playing nicely with her overlords. She wondered if they knew how dangerous she was. If they had any clue how supple the woman's mind was.  
  
Joan still hadn't answered the question. Vera sighed. Of course Joan never gave anything away for nothing. She'd done it again: she was controlling the game. Vera debated just leaving. Just turning and walking out the door, and that being that. It would almost be worth it for the shocked look on Joan's face. To win for just a moment.  
  
Except, that would be all it was. A moment. And Vera, damn it, was tired of losing. She barely had control of Wentworth. She barely had the officers' respect and the prisoners had been eyeing her like fresh meat to rip from the bone and eat raw.  
  
She could also feel the change in the air as the power shifted and reformed its alliances. Power in a prison, among the inmates, was almost like a live animal. Raw and untamed, unpredictable, but it had a base, cunning, primitive intelligence. Vera just had to know which way it was aligning itself. The problem was she lacked the instincts for it. She couldn't even work out where and with whom the animal prowled; she could only just sense it when prisoners changed allegiances. It thrummed beneath the concrete floors like an undercurrent.

Joan, though, knew. She spoke "beast". She felt it. The animal Joan so despised was also like kin to her, so well she understood it. Vera might be barely capable of seeing it let alone tracking it, but the woman sitting opposite her was a master of the beast.  
And they both knew it.  
  
"Yes, the investigation has been reopened," Vera finally said, capitulating with an annoyed huff. "I explained how much Wentworth meant to you and they pretty much conceded the point. I should know more next week."  
  
"Excellen-T," Joan said, and her smile grew wide and predatory. "So? Where were we? Oh, yes. The date that's so interesting on Ms Proctor's file is that the violent murder of her boyfriend occurred just one week after Bea Smith's well-publicised attempted killing of her own abusive husband. She sees Smith as her personal hero."  
  
"Well the Red Right Hand did say Smith was their hero, so this isn't exactly news," Vera said with a frown. "Since Kaz and the Red Right Hand are the same thing."  
  
" _Vera_ ," Joan said softly and slowly as though explaining something to a dimwitted child, " _think_. Many groups act in other people's name. This one has a leader who KILLED in her name. It is a lot rarer than you think, especially in this country. Her actions are intimate and connected. It's like she wrote a personalised love letter to her hero. Or, it's more animal than that. Like a cat that has proudly dragged in a dead mouse for its mistress's approval. She wants Smith to be impressed. To thank her for her loyalty and dedication."  
  
"She didn't though," Vera said, recalling a report about their first meeting. "Smith told her to go away. She didn't thank her."

"No," Joan agreed. "She did not. And none is more vicious than a woman scorned. Smith threw her loyal cat out in the rain and spat on it. Now how do you suppose Proctor will handle that? Given what we know her boyfriend did to her for years?"  
  
Vera shifted uncomfortably, not enjoying the unhinged head space Joan demanded she explore. "She will want vengeance."  
  
"Yes, she will. And?"  
  
Vera thought furiously. She couldn't comprehend this level of loathing. It was so far out of her area of expertise. She watched as Joan licked her lips in satisfaction as she contemplated a topic she appeared well versed in.  
  
"I don't know," Vera said in frustration. "She'll try to kill her?" she guessed.  
  
"Don't be so two dimensional," Joan said with an eye roll. "How would Proctor killing Smith benefit her in the slightest?"

Vera stared at her helplessly.

"I would suspect Proctor learned her lesson in killing her boyfriend: she was not sated," Joan said. "So what did she do next? Set up the Red Right Hand. To draw that feeling out, that delicious sensation of retribution. She wants to do Smith _slowly_. She wants to reclaim her power, reclaim her status, she wants to make Smith acknowledge Proctor was right all along. And she wants Smith sniveling, on her knees before her, for daring to toss her out in the rain after her rejected personal offering of her dead boyfriend."  
  
Vera stared at her. Of course she was right. Every single word made sense. How could she not see it before?  
  
"Don't feel badly, Vera," Joan purred, sensing her self flagellation. "Not everyone can understand the human psyche in all its blackened, twisted glory."  
  
"You can." Vera said. "You understand Kaz a little too well." She shifted uncomfortably.  
  
"There is no such thing as understanding _anything_ too well," Joan retorted. "In fact that's _where_ control comes from. Stop shying away from the things that scurry about in dark corners. Stop being terrified of even looking at the things that frighten you. You might learn something. As it is, you're about as scared as a mouse can be. It's little wonder you don't understand mankind's baser inclinations."  
  
Vera's jaw ground in anger. "I am _not_ some scared mouse," she protested indignantly. "I'm here, aren't I? Putting up with your mind games just to be a better Governor."  
  
Joan smiled coldly. "It's interesting, don't you think, that I talk of dark corners and you being afraid, and you immediately cite your willingness to meet with me. You fear _me_ , Vera? Is that it? _I'm_ the great fear you face?"  
  
She uncoiled herself faster than Vera could ever have imagined and was suddenly sitting beside her on the bed, knees almost touching. Her eyes were locked on Vera's and Vera felt her usual shiver of fear combined with arousal at the directness of the gaze. It was the same look as _that_ night. The night Joan had leaned over her, her imposing height lending to the sense of danger, and lifted long, taunting fingers to Vera's face and run them under her chin.  
  
Then she'd suddenly kissed her. It was a demanding kiss, imposing its will, its desire on Vera, and nothing prepared her for its power.

It _claimed_ her. Branded her.  
  
Joan's eyes had still been red from unwelcome tears fallen earlier over lost love and the outrage at feeling exposed and vulnerable. But her eyes now also burned with intensity as she studied Vera's reaction.  
  
Vera swallowed and said nothing, could think of nothing _to_ say, but her arms had suddenly curled around Joan's waist as she pressed herself to her. It had been awkward. They were still sitting on the sofa. Still half aligned, half angled away; like poor-fitting jigsaw pieces rammed together anyway.  
  
Joan had disengaged herself and Vera felt a momentary panic that her forwardness had been unwelcome. She had touched without permission. She'd made a fool of herself. She bit her lip.  
  
Instead of censuring her, the Governor's lips had curled knowingly and her old imposing self seemed back.  
  
" _Well?_ "  
  
It had been so cocky. Joan had said that word like promising her the most erotic experience Vera's limited imagination could conjure up.  
  
Vera had gaped at her, then almost slapped herself. She wasn't some ingenue. She knew, in principle, about women and sex and ... well, doing it together. She worked at woman's prison, for god's sake. She'd seen some sights she wasn't going to unsee anytime soon. It's just she'd never actually plucked up the courage to do ... more ... herself. She hadn't even realised she'd wanted to, until the day Joan Ferguson eyed her up and down the first day on the job and promised to teach her her secrets. Her mind had gone to some very interesting places that day.  
  
Joan's eyes were glowing. It's like she knew Vera's fears about never having been with a woman. Hell, of course she knew. Vera had never met anyone who could read others so well as Joan. She could strip people bare with one look. Not down to their flesh. Down to the cellular level.  
  
Joan turned and stalked off to a room down the hall. Vera had stared after her for a beat and then followed. She couldn't have stopped herself if she'd tried.

She found herself in a bedroom in muted blues and greys. Strong, but alluring.  
  
"Innocence, Vera, is not something to be ashamed of," Joan had whispered in her ear as she expertly divested Vera of her uniform. "Innocence, for me, is delightful. A rare and valuable find. There is no greater beauty in this world, finding someone unsullied by the decay of living."  
  
Vera shivered before her, nude. She was blushing bright red. Her hands clasped in front of her pubis awkwardly. Her nipples jutted out proudly.  
  
Joan ran a finger down her breast. "Delightful," she said. "I think I'll keep you," she teased. "Does that frighten you?"  
  
Vera blinked back to the present, a small erotic thrill at the memory making her clamp her thighs together. She studied this woman, patient 83, reminding herself that for all she oozed charisma and attitude, she was still a woman in a mental institution in a bad tracksuit. A woman who'd been accused of terrible acts but who was now contained and powerless.  
  
"You don't frighten me, Joan," she said, hoping her voice was steadier than she felt. "You frustrate me. For all the things you could have been, and all the ways you weren't what the person I hoped."  
  
"Hope?" Joan repeated. "You don't understand the first thing about it. All you know are _dreams_. They're not the same. One is tangible, the other ethereal."  
  
"And you do?" Vera gasped. "You understand hope more than _me_?"  
  
"More than anyone." Joan said it as though it was iron-clad fact.  
  
"You're the most cynical person I've ever met. How could you understand how it feels to lose hope?"  
  
"Look at me, Vera. Look at where I am. And tell me: Is it possible for anyone to be crushed to the point they have been placed here, if they didn't once start out with soaring hopes? The two are connected. High hope and devastating loss."  
  
Vera stared at her, still trying to grasp the depth of emotion Joan was trying to convey. Was it possible she felt _too_ much?  
  
Joan suddenly glared at her. "I think we're done," she said in dissatisfaction, as though she'd revealed far more than she ever intended.  
  
"You're saying this, all of this, Will and Fletch and everything, was just because your hopes were crushed?" Vera asked uncertainly. "Hopes for ... Jianna and you?"  
  
Joan hurled the folder towards the door with savagery. Her hands returned to her lap and Joan clasped them gently. Another parody. Another show of hiding. "Don't let me keep you."  
  
Vera walked to the door and knelt, scooping up the errant paperwork. "I'm sorry," she said, as she slid the photo of empty eyes into the manila folder.  
  
"You don't even know what for."  
  
Vera closed the folder and turned. "I'm sorry for you. And I feel sorry _for_ you. Which I suppose makes you feel worse, doesn't it? When the mouse pities the cat. No wonder Kaz lost it at Smith."  
  
"Don't you dare compare me to a common prisoner!" Joan's eyes flashed and once again Vera felt the danger in the room. It was unsettling, like something cold dripping down the walls.  
  
Vera, however, couldn't contain her incredulity. Not this time. "You should see yourself. You ARE a common prisoner. Worse, you believe you're better than the rest. And before you deny it, look where they are, and look where you are. Now tell me who has more rights?"  
  
She rose and placed her hand on the door and looked at the waves of outrage coming at her. "Until next week," she said.

Pure venom greeted her. She took one last, lingering look at patient 83 and shut the door behind her.  
  



	6. Perception is Everything

Prisoner 83 had been transferred out of Brookfield Institute. Her doctors had decided she was neither a threat to herself or others. Vera snorted at the preposterous thought. There had never walked a more dangerous woman. The experts knew nothing.

She had contemplated not visiting Ferguson at her new low-level security facility. Leaving her to fester in her frustrations. It would be the least she deserved for all she had done. In fact Vera had decided for her own mental wellbeing, that this was exactly what she would do. Close the folder on Joan Ferguson. Move on. Just ... walk away.

It was easier said than done. First the fire report came back. After they'd had a second look when Vera had suggested it might not be as cut and dried as Joan Ferguson lighting it, they couldn't disagree. The wiring had been old and poorly maintained in that part of the building. It could just as easily have been spontaneous combustion. An "inconclusive" finding was entered on the paperwork.

But then ... then it all went to hell. The Herald Sun newspaper had run _those_ photos. Someone, someone in her own prison, had gained access to CCTV footage of the parking lot outside Wentworth and sent damning pictures of the prison psychiatrist, Bridget Westfall engaged in a steamy kiss with a prisoner, Franky Doyle, on the day of her release.

"Sapphic Jailbird Shock!" was the unimaginative headline that had whipped around the globe.

Vera's teeth still ground in annoyance. Who the hell had done this, had undermined her in such a way? The fact the affair had happened under Ferguson's watch didn't seem to matter. _She_ was the Governor now, and she'd had to listen to radio talk-back callers referring to Wentworth as _Pussy Prison_. Her prison, _her_ prison was now the butt of jokes across the nation. It fired her with rage. She was beginning to wonder if this was why Ferguson had seemed so pissed off most of the time - she took the institution's slings and arrows as a personal affront.

The Department of Correctional Services had put its spin doctor on the case and a media release was sent out explaining that they were investigating further but that the relationship had started AFTER Doyle had been discharged.

"What, the _minute_ after?" one wag mocked on breakfast TV. "No flies on those two!"

Vera frowned at the memory. The department's damage control was a joke. Doyle and Westfall might have gone to ground, the latter suspended pending a more thorough investigation, but Vera was the one who had to pick her way past leering reporters offering salacious gutter snark as she entered and left the prison each day. You'd think they'd have moved on by now, but no, the public's appetite for the antics of women behind bars continued unabated.

As the weeks dragged on, WWFD became her new mantra. She hated that she even had to wonder. She should know herself by now what Ferguson would do. It had been seven months since she'd taken the top job.

But she didn't. She felt like a damned fraud.

In a fit of annoyance she slammed the paperwork she'd been attempting to tackle down on her desk, and reached for her car keys. She was just angry enough to find out from the woman's own mouth the answer to that question. WWFD?

* * *

The Sunnyday Facility was clearly ironically named, Vera thought, as she studied the dour faces of security guards letting her into the institution. Inside these walls were women and men being readied for release, whose mental health conditions were under control, most likely via medication, and who were nearing their return back into society. It spoke well for Ferguson that she'd slithered her way in here, somehow.

Vera didn't even have to ask how. She knew the woman would have worked the doctors like a pro, manipulated them until they were beginning to question their own sanity for having held her in the high-security institute in the first place. Ferguson must be a great deal better indeed to have pulled off this coup. Of course, even if she got a mental health tick, criminal charges were still on the back burner.

The former governor's new accommodations were shared. Four beds to a cell. Wait, not "cell". The supervisor had taken great pains to point out these were rooms. They were "clients" not prisoners or patients. Vera had refrained from asking why they all wore bright green outfits if they were merely clients.

She was being given the special tour, thanks to her status at Wentworth, and she was well aware this wasn't visitor's day. Exceptions could be made for certain VIPs, however.

"Ah," Supervisor Danvers said, unlocking a door to a building marked "Somerville Unit". "Here we are. The client will be happy to see you. She hasn't had many visitors."

Vera paused in surprise. "Many? Who are the others?"

"I really couldn't say," Danvers said with a brusque headshake. "Why don't you ask her yourself?"

The door swung open and Vera saw three people. Two of the women on double bunk-beds busied themselves in magazines and letter writing. The third, on the highest bunk, alone on the other side of the room, lay with fingers interlaced across her chest, appearing bored. She shifted her steely gaze to the door.

"Ms Ferguson," Danvers ordered sternly, but still politely. "The common room, if you please. You have a guest."

The "client" languidly extricated herself from the high bunk with an ease that set Vera's senses tingling. Ferguson was so much more agile now. She looked lean and sharp. Definitely in control of her faculties.

Ferguson said nothing but walked ahead to a shared common area, with cheap group tables and plastic chairs. A broken TV was in the corner, its screen black, an Out of Order sign taped to it.

"If you need me or wish to leave, signal Mitchell," Danvers said, indicating to a tall man in a uniform across the room, out of ear shot. "I have some work to do."

The supervisor turned and exited.

Vera slid into a cracked orange chair. It squeaked embarrassingly. Ferguson mirrored the action in her own seat. It made no noise. Of course.

Vera licked her lips anxiously, ordering her thoughts. Ferguson took the opportunity to study her, those roaming dark eyes missing nothing.

She was more confronting like this, Vera decided. Silent, the possibilities endless as to her tangle of thoughts.

"You're looking a lot better," Vera said. She indicated their surrounds. "Congratulations on the move."

A thin eyebrow arched, as if scarcely believing Vera wanted to indulge in small talk.

A flare of irritation filled Vera. "Fine," she said, fixing Ferguson with a cool look. "Doyle and Westfall. I assume you heard?"

Ferguson snorted. "Who hasn't?" she offered lazily.

"Well," Vera said in disgust, "it's killing us. Pussy Prison? That's what the shock jocks are calling us on air."

Ferguson merely shrugged. It pissed Vera off even more.

"You don't care? THIS is what your legacy has become! I know you cared about that prison."

"My legacy?" Ferguson asked, lacing the word with disbelief. "My legacy will never be understood in your lifetime."

"Oh can the bullshit," Vera said, irritated. "You knew, didn't you? About those two? There were rumours back then. How did you contain it? How do I contain it now?"

"And what makes you think I can help you? Look at where I am. A common prisoner who thinks she's better than the rest. Isn't that what you said?" The tone was light but a look of fury, just for a second, darted over her face and Vera felt as though all the air has been sucked from the room.

Ferguson was seething.

But the prisoner merely flicked at her green pants, lips twisting in a mockery of a smile. She looked so calm.

"So that got to you?" Vera asked curiously. "That. Which bit? Me reminding you of where you are or that you're no better than the other inmates?"

Ferguson's gaze shifted to the wide windows. "Nothing you could say could ever get to me."

Vera laughed incredulously.

Ferguson's eyebrow merely slid up as her gaze returned to Vera. Somehow her expression reminded Vera of a velociraptor testing an electric fence for weaknesses. The longer she was exposed to that stare, the more unsettling it felt.

"You're furious with me," Vera said. "Why not say so?"

"Gloating now?" Ferguson asked. "Is that what this is? It's unbecoming. Why don't you get to the point."

Vera gave her a long look and then spoke. "Fine. Help me on this scandal and I'll tell you what the fire investigators found."

"I could find that out for myself." Ferguson studied her nails. So collected. Indifferent. Even knowing it was just a front, it was impressive.

"You'd find out _eventually_. If I chose to release it and not sit on it. Somehow I think you'd like that ammunition now, what with your lawyer visiting you."

It was a guess. A stab in the dark because she knew this woman - well as best as anyone could know such a person - and she did not have friends. She did not appear to have family, either. So the only people who would ever visit would be paid. Which left lawyers or thugs. And her thug was not in a position to bother anyone right now so that just left one option.

"Oh well done, Vera. Your little spy network is improving. I suppose my lessons weren't entirely wasted." Brown eyes gleamed at her.

Vera twitched then. Because she was a hopeless liar and always had been. Ferguson saw it and laughed. "Oh dear. No spy network. You just guessed. Well, I should have known. It's not like you play well with others enough to have a network at all."

"And you do?" Vera retorted.

"In my own way. But we're not here to talk about me. Are we, Vera? You need my help. Again. How does it feel to be this incompetent?"

Vera fidgeted at the direct hit. _Were her fears that easy to read?_ Her cheap chair squeaked again.

"And here I thought you liked my company," Ferguson continued, warming to the argument. "My company, and all the wonderful things I have done for you in the past." Her voice dropped to a seductive purr. Vera could not will away the blush that spidered its way up her neck.

"Stop it," she snapped. "Do you want to be updated on the fire thing or not?"

Ferguson smirked and took her time in answering even though they both knew what the answer was.

"By all means," she said, expansively. "Share."

"And then you'll help me shut down this Pussy Prison scandal?"

"I _do_ like the way you say 'pussy'," Ferguson observed, her eyes half lidded. "Do you think about it often? Pussies? Any one in particular?"

Vera's nostrils flared as she dashed that thought from her mind. This wasn't helpful. Why was Ferguson doing this? What possible gain could she attain from reminding Vera of _that_ night. Ferguson didn't even remember it. She didn't even...

Vera stopped and looked up, realising. _Oh hell! She desperately wanted to know what happened._

Vera laughed. For the first time in her pathetic, miserable life, it felt like she had one up on Ferguson - and it felt damned good.

"You'd like to know what we did, wouldn't you?" she replied and knew immediately she'd guessed correctly when a flash of frustration crossed Ferguson's face.

"In fact," Vera continued, "I suspect you think of it a lot, don't you? Wondering who did what and how?" Feeling daring now, she added: "Did I beg for it? Did you?"

A scowl now.

_Oooh. She didn't like that._

"No," Vera said, "you think you'd never beg. That I'm just making things up. But you'd be surprised what happens when you're busy calling out the name 'Jianna' in the heat of passion. Because it really wasn't me you were sharing your body with that night. And with your defenses down, you held nothing back."

Well it was almost true. She'd heard the whispered word but it hadn't been until the next day, when her boss looked right through her, seemingly with no recollection of the events the night before, that she'd put it all together. In Ferguson's rapidly unraveling mind she hadn't shared her bed with her deputy at all. She'd been with someone she loved.

Ferguson's ... Joan's ... entire face crumbled. A strange, strangled sound escaped from her lips and the sheer awfulness of what Vera had just said hit her. She'd just mocked Joan with the memory of her dead lover. Regret immediately swelled in her chest but before Vera could say sorry, say _anything_ , Joan's face had returned to that oddly unnatural, placid flatness she wore when she was hiding.

"I believe you had a fire investigation to discuss," she said in an empty voice. Her eyes were dry and clear. The timber was perfectly devoid of any emotion.

Vera could see a slight tremble in Joan's fingers, as she struggled with the effort required to maintain her control. To push back the memories of a woman she'd lost. A woman who'd, indirectly, led her here, to this soulless, impersonal pale-green hole for the mentally unfit.

Vera wondered what to say. An apology wouldn't be welcome now. She studied the conflicted woman in front of her, the emotional eddies absent from her pale features even as those supple, long fingers twitched and trembled.

Old Joan would have been stronger, would never have let any signs at all leak.

Old Joan wasn't here now. The cracks were clearly showing.

"You're in the clear," Vera said. "They've ruled the fire source inconclusive."

"And Westfall," Joan asked, her voice tight with strain. "What are they doing about her conduct?"

"It's being investigated," Vera said. "Her actions have been called into question regarding anything involving Franky Doyle. And... anyone."

She looked at Joan significantly and watched as the broad shoulders across from her relaxed slightly, the message understood.

" _Anyone_?" Joan turned the word over like a coin she'd found. Assessing it for its value. Her fingers stopped trembling.

Vera could almost see the gears whirring. If Westfall's judgment was considered suspect in all matters pertaining to her lover, then her speaking out against Ferguson, a woman who'd had an adversarial relationship with Doyle, might be seen as motivated for personal reasons. Westfall had labelled Ferguson a psychopath at her competency hearing. The psychiatrist's subsequent fall from grace could only work in the former Governor's favour.

"Let me know if they waver," Joan said, her eyes closing briefly. "I may have some further information that would assist in certain decisions being reached."

"Oh?"

"All in good time." Joan smiled then, and something seemed to wash across her. Like confidence and cockiness, but more dangerous. The hairs on the back of Vera's neck stood up. "Well," Joan continued, lip twitching, "to the next order of business. "

Vera exhaled. Her heart, she realised, was pounding. The adrenalin from dealing with this woman always did this to her. Always set her on edge.

"To your little scandal ... it can be washed away if you agree to destroy Westfall," Joan said. "A nuclear solution."

"Nuclear?" Vera blinked at her. "She's a good woman who made one mistake. Why would I want to do that?"

"How badly do you want the scandal to be gone? How much collateral damage are you willing to allow?"

" _She's_ the price?" Vera asked, feeling ill. "I don't think I want to throw her to the wolves, if that's what you mean."

Joan studied her. She was silent for so long Vera shifted under her scrutiny.

"You lack courage," Joan sighed. She didn't sound surprised. Only dissatisfied.

"No, damn it, I have a line. There's no need to ... Bridget - I believe her when she says she wasn't in a relationship with Doyle when she was in Wentworth."

"Perception is all that others see." Long fingers thrummed impatiently against the table.

"Like how you are perceived as a psychopath?" Vera held her breath.

Joan went very still. "As I say. Perception is _all_ they see. If you will not destroy that woman to give the story the bloodied ending the media is baying for, then you must reshape the existing story."

"How?"

"Change direction. Give them something else. Something bigger. Something juicier that shows you're serious about rooting out corruption in your prison. Force them to re-evaluate you as a source of mockery. _Force_ them to take you seriously. And then, _then_ , threaten to destroy any of those snivelling media hounds who'd think  of making a joke of you again."

"That's great in theory," Vera shook her head, "But I don't have a bigger scandal to root out."

"You run a jail, Governor," Joan mocked her. Her face showed pity at her ignorance.

"So?" Vera asked, perplexed.

Joan snorted. She leaned forward until she was so far inside her space that the guard on the far wall growled a warning and stepped forward.

"So - little mouse - use your imagination."


	7. WWBD

Use her _imagination_? Vera Bennett had several pluses but a wide and vivid imagination was not one of them. She struggled for days with the conundrum. She thought and discarded all the many and various Machiavellian schemes Ferguson would attempt. But with each one she didn't even know where to begin. How to begin. Even if she invented a scheme out of thin air, which Ferguson seemed to be suggesting, it would collapse under any scrutiny.

It was useless. Because it all came down to one simple fact: Vera Bennett did not speak Beast. The prisoners did. Ferguson did. Vera did not. She was trying to beat them on a playing field that was not only uneven, she barely understood the rules. The startling realisation gave her some peace. She had been a fraud, it was true. Pretending to be someone she was not? Guilty.

So the solution seemed clear. It was time to ask: What Would Bennett Do?

She would beat them on her own terms. Vera contemplated what her strengths were. She was organised. Thorough. Meticulous to the point of anal. She understood the big picture and loved theory over practicalities. She could also spot errors on a macro scale. But she understood on an intellectual level the concept of power structures. How they worked. How people worked. How they fit together as a team and what made them pull away.

She might not have Ferguson's X-ray vision into a soul, but she could read people. She understood on a logical level the base instincts of humans even if she couldn't relate. And, from watching Ferguson's effortless assumption of the alpha female role at Wentworth, she realised she knew how to beat them.

Oh, of course she knew she would never be an alpha female. It had been ridiculous that she'd even tried, however fleetingly. But she had her own brand of cunning. Her own intelligence.

Vera thought back to how she'd been when she'd first arrived at Wentworth. She'd been so absurdly green. She'd thrown herself into researching prison methods around the world for their effectiveness and techniques. At that thought, Vera went to her filing cabinet and pulled out all her old research. Then she sat down and began to read. And read.

Three days and two restless nights later, she went into work, sat down and, with fingers slick with sweat, she made a call that would change everything.

_"The Age, Felicity Chambers speaking."_

"Hello, this is Vera Bennett. I'm the..."

 _"Yes,"_ a crisp voice said down the line. _"I know who you are. What can I do for you Governor?"_

There was no edge of mockery that Vera had become so used to hearing since the scandal. It was refreshing to not have to hear it for once. She relaxed a little.

"We should meet," Vera said. "I believe I have a story for you."

 _"Is that so?"_ She could hear the bite of curiosity in the journalist's tone now. An edge of excitement. _"An exclusive, perhaps?"_

"Yes," Vera agreed. "But not about what you're thinking. Something else. Something far more substantial."

 _"Substantial?"_ Chambers asked. _"Well that would make a change to the news cycle, wouldn't it?"_

She laughed and Vera couldn't help but join in.

Yes, this mightn't be such a terrible idea after all.

* * *

Wentworth General Manager, Derek Channing, had been surprisingly easy to turn around to Vera's grand plan. She knew that Ferguson had something on him and it had been a simple matter of quid pro quo to extract the leverage from her. The man had then folded like a puppet with its strings cut. Her most satisfying moment was his utter shock and almost grudging respect that _she'd_ been the one to use the leverage.

Funny how many people underestimated her.

Vera, in return, had pulled a few strings and made it possible for Joan to access her bank accounts once more, which had been frozen during the initial police investigation and her subsequent stay in various institutions. Hell, if the woman wanted to buy herself some luxuries on the inside - or a bulk-load of disinfectant as the case may be - who was she to disagree?

Of course Vera wasn't stupid enough to believe that that was _really_ why Joan wanted access to her cash reserves. But Vera's own schemes were afoot now. Frankly, she didn't care whether Joan bribed her way to Bali or bought the Dallas Cheerleaders.

"You have some sparkle now," Joan observed at their next meeting, with a supple wave of fingers. "You glow. You're either pregnant or up to something."

Her eyes were mocking but Vera merely gave her a slow smile and offered a self-deprecating retort: "I think we both know either are unlikely scenarios."

Joan leaned forward and spread her hands on the plastic table in a gesture that would almost pass as supplication, if one didn't know her better. "Tell me what you're scheming," she suggested softly. "I could help. Find the flaw in your plan? Two heads are better than one."

Vera regarded the woman in the ill-fitting green uniform opposite. She was too tall for their clothes, too broad across the shoulders. Too, too. She did not fit in. She never had.

"You'll find out next week. Everyone will. If there's a flaw in the plan, it's too late to fix now."

Joan gave her a dissatisfied grunt. "So did you use your imagination?" she challenged. "Will there be some showy drug bust arresting dozens on the news?"

A game show flickered on the TV in the corner of the room, drawing Vera's eye. So they'd fixed it. She allowed the noise to fill the pause in conversation for a few moments.

"I'm not you, Joan," Vera said carefully. "We both know that."

A silence fell again, punctuated by the excited TV host.

"I am well aware," Joan drawled. Confusion edged her features. "No one is. Your point?"

"I'm not good at playing the game your way. Instead I decided to do something I'm good at."

Vera waited for the other woman to slip the knife in and ask what she _was_ good at but Joan studied her silently.

"Do you actually know what you're doing?" Joan finally asked.

Vera exhaled. That _was_ the question. She met Joan's eyes evenly, wondering if she was being insulted. Instead she saw the same curiosity as earlier.

"Did you?"

"What?"

"When you were doing all your twisty schemes, did you 'know what you were doing'?"

Joan's lips twitched then, but Vera could see if it for what it was - a defense mechanism.

"I had certain hopes." Joan's gaze shifted to beyond the windows. "I was of the view that with enough planning and time anything could be accomplished."

"And now?"

"Now I appreciate that if a plan has any major flaw, no amount of either will achieve success."

"What was the flaw in your plan? Not killing Fletch outright? Or not framing Will better? And what was that thing with Spiteri all about? Was it just a hobby for you while you were bored waiting? You know she's under 24/7 suicide watch?"

Joan's jaw tightened and her eyes narrowed. "I don't expect you to understand anything. But I was unwell for a time. Now I'm...not."

Vera stared incredulously. "You might have this facility wrapped around your pinky - especially Danvers, I don't even want to know what you've done to her - but that doesn't make you 'well'. It makes you more cunning than all of them put together."

"You think I've done something to the good supervisor?" Joan's eyes glittered. "How interesting."

"Joan, she can barely look at you, yet every time I visit she insists on personally delivering me to you. Because she just wants an excuse to look at you again."

"Would that bother you? Me, bending someone in authority to my will, to achieve my own ends?"

The toying voice was back. The way she said 'bending' sounded positively dirty.

Vera sighed. "You just can't help yourself, can you? Born to manipulate."

"On the contrary, it was a skill I honed with years of practice."

Vera studied her. "You may as well tell me," Vera said finally. "How long before you get out of here? I know you're planning something. I almost pity Supervisor Danvers. I know exactly how it feels being played for a fool by someone you admire."

Joan smiled again, and this was the devious one that always used to make Vera break out into a cold sweat. The Governor shook her head. "I probably don't want to know the answer to that, do I? In fact don't tell me anything that would require me to perjure myself on the stand. I'm too busy to attend your court case."

"I assure you I will walk out the front door, like anyone else," Joan said. She shifted her hands from the table to her lap, where she interlaced them and leaned back in the chair. "But six weeks is firming up in my schedule. Now, tell me: Who is assisting with your grand scheme?"

 _Six weeks?_ Ferguson worked fast. Vera wondered if she had a professional obligation to warn Danvers she was being played like a fiddle. Actually the lesson had been a useful one to learn for herself. Danvers would soon discover its worth, too. Vera's mind wandered. Surely Joan wasn't fucking her? She pictured the austere supervisor again. No, she was too ... uptight. God knows, Vera had been there herself. One night with the queen of power plays had changed her perspective on a lot of things. She'd been unable to get too tightly wound ever again.

Joan drummed her fingers impatiently.

"Felicity Chambers." Vera suddenly remembered the question.

"You must be joking."

Vera shook her head. "Not kidding."

"That leftie features journalist? The Age? The one who thinks prisons should be run like Sweden or Finland or wherever it is - prisoners all roaming about on lovely farms with happy little shacks and all the luxuries?" Her sneer was pure Ferguson.

"The very same," Vera observed.

"Tell me you don't agree with that nonsense!"

"For justice to be done it must also be seen to be done. You, more than anyone, taught me the importance of that."

Vera hadn't entirely answered the question. Joan was too busy with her outrage to notice.

"Then she will eviscerate you," Joan said with certainty. "Whatever you are scheming, She. Will. Destroy. You."

"She might try," Vera said placidly. "Or not. It doesn't even matter. But she will also shift the conversation. The entire nation will want to join the debate by the time I'm finished."

"Finished? You may well be."

"We'll see. In the meantime, they'll be so busy discussing my plan that any 'Pussy Prison' slurs will be a tumbleweed in the rear-vision mirror of the news."

Joan peered at her. The expression wasn't exactly approving. "You used to be such a mouse," she purred. "That had its own charm."

"Why? Because I was so malleable? So fearful?"

Joan's eyes dared her to disagree. "You were all mine to play with. I didn't even have to say how high you had to jump. You did it for me all on your own. Didn't you, Vera. It was most amusing."

Vera shot her a sideways look. "So you assume you're the cat in this scenario? I'm the compliant mouse?"

Joan's eyebrow lifted. Her face said "what else?".

Vera's eyes half closed as she regarded her. "You underestimated me, just like everyone else. There's more than one cat in the world, Joan. And we come in all different shapes and sizes."

* * *

"Bennett's bold blueprint" was the headline when the story broke. The Governor was reading it at her desk for a fourth time when her deputy, Will, came in.

"You know how to make a splash," he said, eyeing the paper.

"That was the idea."

"Think they'll riot over it?"

"Not for long." Vera folded the newspaper and put it down.

"Well one or two will stick their necks above the parapet. Shit stir. Loss of liberty and so on," he argued.

Vera looked up at him, taking his measure. "Would you stick your neck out if you knew your entire cell block would be punished for your actions?"

Will hesitated.

"Exactly," Vera said. "Group responsibility for everything. One does the wrong thing, they all cop a punishment. One does the right thing, they all get a reward. It's tribal. _They're_ tribal. I've just delineated the lines formally. They pick their tribe when they enter. Play nicely and their whole tribe prospers. Of course I'm not calling it that but it's the bottom line."

"Yeah," Will said, eyebrow lifting. "I've seen some of the rewards programs. Yoga classes, extra yard time. Make-up? Hair-dressing classes? The media will crucify you."

"Only the _winning_ group will get those things. Every six months, the points get tallied and those groups with fewest infractions and best behaviour can take their pick of rewards."

"So you only have to actually stick your hand in the budget twice a year? Shit, that's clever." Will's eyes widened. "Like, Ferguson-level clever." His eyes suddenly darkened. "Which is why I'm sorry I won't be around to see it." He slid an envelope over the desk. "Two weeks' notice."

"No," Vera gasped. "Why?"

He shrugged. "It's time. And I'm just over all of this shit. The steel bars, the anger, the fights, all those feral crazies high on smack. Gotta be more to life, you know? Hey, maybe I'll follow Fletch and find a far-flung fishing spot in Tasmania."

Vera found a headache coming on. "Have you got anything else lined up?"

"Nah. I thought I'd pick a highway, and just keep riding."

"We'll be sorry to see you go."

She meant it, too.

He gave her a smile. "Yeah. I bet. Christ, this will be a fun place the first time you put two dozen members of one 'tribe' in the slot because one of them fucked up. Not to mention the civil libertarians whining because you've punished the innocent."

"Yes," Vera agreed. "It will be interesting. I guarantee I'll only have to do it once."

He grinned. "You are way sneakier than I gave you credit for, Governor."

She cocked her head curiously. "Was that a compliment?

He shook his head, as he got up to leave. "Yeah," he said. "I reckon it was."

* * *

The media did, indeed, go to town on the Bennett Blueprint. Talkback callers rang off the hook about the morality of group punishment, group reward. While the military indulged in such practices during basic training to great success, it had never been tried across the board at a prison before. It was dehumanising, various civil libertarians and prisoner support groups argued. Unjustified. Cruel, even.

But for every person arguing for the rights of prisoners, a hundred more wanted them to suffer more. They liked the cold, clean squeezing of the throats of a prison population they hated and feared anyway. But no matter how she cut it, Vera had already won. The scandal was no longer even mentioned. When it came to the name Wentworth, all she ever heard was "groundbreaking" or "controversial", often in the same sentence.

She'd even heard Channing support it on radio.

"The facts don't lie," he told the nation's top shock jock. "Violence is down 13 percent, good behaviour is up 45 percent. And here's an interesting fact," he added, "Governor Bennett has done something no prison boss in history has managed. She's shifted the culture from prisoner vs warder, to prisoner vs prisoner. They watch themselves. They watch each other. They actually report someone from the opposing groups when they see the wrong thing done, because for once there's something in it for them. Their team rises as other teams fall. And they're competitive, so they all want to win.

"Of course, we thoroughly investigate every report to ensure it's not just bull - but you get the idea. There's only a handful of guards in a prison. We need even fewer under Bennett's scheme. She's revolutionised the way to keep dangerous prisoners in check. It's brilliant."

 _Brilliant_? Yeah right. That's not what he'd said when she'd first pitched it to him. And she wasn't sure she approved of him talking up the snitching side effects of the scheme.

Vera put her paperwork away and packed up. She headed for the parking lot, her heels crunching on the gravel. Her car was a garish pink eyesore, bought in a fit of insanity when the saleswoman pointed out no man would ever want to steal it. As she drove through the back streets of Melbourne, faint oil slicks shimmering from a recent rain, she reflected on how things were now. The new world order.

Her prison was now being discussed as a template. She was getting respect now from many circles. Even circles who had fought her appointment, with the borderline insulting argument she lacked any edge. She had edge - she just didn't wear it with an iron fist or brutal control issues. She didn't need to rough up prisoners to instil discipline. Their tribe leaders did it for her.

At that thought her mind wandered to her former boss. It had been almost two months since she'd last visited. So much for her vaunted prediction of a six-week exit plan. Perhaps Danvers wised up after all?

Unlikely though. The woman was clearly under the Ferguson thrall. She knew the look all to well - it used to greet her in the morning every day. But that was then. She was over her now. She was over a lot of things.

Like being seen as a mouse.

She pulled into her driveway and headed up the three short stairs to her house. She punched in the security code and closed the door behind her. Kicking off her heels she headed for the fridge. She had a nice Cabernet she wouldn't mind finishing. And some leftover Chinese from Sunday night. She would just...

_"Good evening, Vera."_

The voice was unmistakeable. It haunted her waking and dreaming hours. It was like a caress and she swayed towards it in spite of herself.

She whipped her head around and saw the lean, powerful leonine form that had installed herself on her couch. Her heart began to pound - just as it always did. Hell. So much for being over her.

After stilling her shocked squeak, she exhaled.

"Hello Joan. Make yourself at home," she said, aiming for sarcastic. It came out breathy.

An amused, achingly familiar smirk greeted her.

"Really, Vera," Joan tsked. "I believe I already have."


	8. Messy business

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've decided to try and finish this fic before the show returns, hence the speedy updates. Here's another quickie to tide you all over.

Vera turned her back on her visitor to collect her thoughts and reached for a wine glass.

"Sorry I don't have any vodka to offer you. Want some white wine?"

"No." The tone was light but she could feel Joan's trademark intensity layered beneath it. She didn't have to turn to know dark eyes were boring holes into her back, watching her every movement.

"So," Vera asked conversationally as she poured herself a large glass of wine, far more than she'd usually have, "do I have to call the police?"

"If you're asking whether I dug my way out or shimmied down the drain pipe to escape, then no. I have all the paperwork in order. I exited via the front door with Supervisor Danvers' blessing. As I predicted."

Vera turned. "Do I want to know how?"

"It was not a jail, Vera," Joan admonished her. "Their only role is to prepare unsound people for return to society. If a person is ready, they're ready. Do I seem unsound to you?"

Her teasing tone was back and again Vera was struck by how hypnotic those eyes examining her were. She was being studied at the cellular level. There was something about being the centre of Joan's universe that was both unsettling and … incredibly flattering.

Vera lowered herself into the seat at the far left of the couch, leaving a cushion seat between them. She twisted to study her and took a sip of wine.

"So your arrest warrant will be next. For the outstanding criminal charges."

Joan's smile was slow and dangerous. A shiver of arousal shot through Vera and she realised she'd seen this expression before: While nude and pinned to sweaty sheets by an equally naked governor. Ferguson had pressed her full weight down on her, like a warning that she was not to be easily dismissed. Whereas being with Fletch, Vera's only previous sexual encounter, had made her feel trapped and suffocated, beneath this unnerving, unpredictable woman, powerfully claiming her, Vera had felt aroused beyond belief.

The feeling had never left, either - she just hated admitting it to herself. In her bed, alone each night, under the cover of darkness, her fingers sliding across slick flesh, she still craved the sensation of being so completely possessed, however fucked up that was. It was embarrassing wanting someone as messed up as Ferguson. She hated that she knew that about herself now; and that part of her didn't care.

In recent months she'd shoved aside the memories of that night, to focus on work. But now, with that one look and Joan's nearness, the sensation roared along her heated blood, singeing her tingling nerve endings.

Vera swallowed a gulp of wine, tucking a foot under her backside. Heat flooded her cheeks. So much for _ever_ being over her.

"Charges? Unlikely," Joan replied, eyes glowing with satisfaction. Her arm extended along the back of the couch, her fingers thrumming against the rough beige material. "My lawyer has sorted it all out. The last loose end was, in fact, the fire."

Vera choked on her wine and began to cough. She stared at Joan in astonishment. "What? How? What about Fletch? Your thug ran him down!"

"Mr Fletcher is not willing to testify. His sojourn to the wilds of Tasmania where he's sheep herding or trout fishing or whatever endeavour he's flung himself into, is testament to that. His gaps in memory are well documented. He would be shredded on the stand. When my lawyer pointed this fact out to Mr Fletcher, it made him somewhat reluctant to enter the fray."

"Your lawyer intimidated him?" Vera gasped.

"Not at all," Joan said with a purr that did funny things to Vera's insides. "Merely pointed out all the weaknesses of the case and asked how his health, now so freshly mended yet still precarious, would cope with the stress of a high-profile court case. Mr Fletcher decided life was far preferable as it was."

"Well, Jodie Spiteri, surely, would…"

"Is mentally unfit to take the stand. And, for some reason, the woman refuses to be in court with me even via remote screen, even if she wasn't a mess. It's most … curious."

Vera gave her the stinky-eye.

"Why so shocked?" Joan drawled. "One cannot be convicted on the ramblings of a broken creature who can barely form a coherent sentence. Where would be the justice in that?"

"Justice?" Vera choked out. "Tell that to Will. He had to endure having his life hurled upside-down on suspicion of murdering Smith's ex-husband. You planted evidence in his home. You…"

"Absurd speculation," Joan said, fingers waving dismissively. "He was a disgruntled employee. Always was. I kept careful notes on his insolence."

"His insolence? That's ridiculous. And Will will say so on the stand."

Joan smiled. Like a cat that had the cream.

"Oh God," Vera muttered. "He's not coming back to testify is he? _You're_ why he's quit?"

"Mr Jackson has been through a trying ordeal. Falsely accused of slanderous allegations? Trust me, Vera, I know all too well how that feels. My understanding is he has been offered a generous compensation package to allow him to get on with his life."

"Generous… compens…" Vera blinked in dismay. " _That's_ why you wanted access to your money? To bribe Will not to testify?"

"No one bribed anyone," Joan said firmly. "My lawyer simply ensured a man who wanted a fresh start, could get it. Did you never think to ask how one of your underpaid guards could afford to quit, with no new job, and simply take to the open road?"

"That is exactly what a bribe is! I can't believe this!"

"He was tired," Joan said softly. "We all are. We all want this ... messy business ... behind us. He'd had enough. And when my lawyer explained in detail all the ways I would be exonerated with or without his testimony, and indeed come out of it as a baby-saving hero, he had an epiphany. He came to the conclusion that this way, at least, he'd get something out of the most appalling six months of his life. A wise decision, really. Who can blame him?"

Vera exhaled. "And now Bridget Westfall's testimony against you is worthless, too." She shook her head as a realisation struck her. "It was you, wasn't it? _You_ got someone to leak the CCTV footage of her and Doyle. You turned my first three months leading Wentworth into a fucking scandal!"

Rage filled Vera and she stared at the woman with fresh eyes. What a scorpion. What a... she had no words. _This_ was the woman her body craved like a drug? Hell!

Joan's eyes were half-lidded as she regarded her solemnly. "And look at how you turned around that little adversity. I'm proud of you, Vera. It's not the method I would choose – your organised gang competition or whatever you call it – but you have made your mark. That is impressive."

Vera felt an unbidden swell of warmth flood her at the rare compliment, so desperately desired, as she warred with her anger at what had been done to her.

It was ironic. Joan Ferguson would have crushed anyone who had done to her what had just been done to Vera. In fact, some days Vera thought she could still see the imprint of the slap on her face when Joan had done exactly that.

She wanted to demand "How could you". But even as the thoughts came to mind, the words died in her mouth. She already understood. Joan had deemed it necessary. It wasn't even personal. She was protecting herself. She always protected herself.

"Well you've got everything you want now, haven't you?" Vera said tiredly.

"Not exactly," Joan said and her eyes drifted to the uniform's insignia on Vera's shoulder. The symbol in a flourish of gold that told the world Vera Bennett was Wentworth's governor.

"You have got to be joking," Vera hissed. "You still want to go back to your old job?"

Joan lifted her chin, a glint in her eye. "I would accept deputy," she said, her tone toying. "For now. And I understand a new position is becoming available."

"You're insane!" Vera threw her hands up. This was absurd. How could anyone do what she'd done and expect to slide back into the prison's upper echelons?

"Actually, no, not insane. I even have the paperwork now to prove it. That's more than most people, wouldn't you say?" Her Cheshire cat smirk lit her face.

She was impossible.

"Why are you here?" Vera asked. "Is all this just to gloat? You said yourself it's unbecoming."

"I said it was unbecoming on you. On me, well, it's to be expected." She smiled.

Vera shook her head at that. A joke. It was funny. God, in spite of everything, Joan fucking Ferguson was actually pretty funny at times. Charming even. Not to mention ruthless, brilliant and so damn, terrifyingly cunning.

"Actually gloating is not why I'm here," Joan said, her expression shifting to intense. Its neutral position. "I need a place to stay. My home is without power, I've discovered. Not to mention no gas. I require your assistance just until my utilities are back on."

Vera's eyebrows shot up. "You want to stay _here_? With me? Were the hotels all full?"

"Germ incubators, every one of them," Joan sneered in disgust. "The condition of the blankets alone would revolt any bacteriologist. Not to mention the lack of security. People wafting in and out of one's room on a whim. It's not acceptable." She paused. "Speaking of such matters – you really should change your home passcode. If I could figure it out in one attempt, anyone could."

"How did you know?" Vera asked, perplexed.

Joan's lip curled in derision. "You were my deputy for almost a year, Vera. You think I didn't know you used your birth year on every password?"

"Oh."

"So?" Joan said, impatience lacing her tone. "What of my situation?"

"You want to stay with me?" Vera repeated in disbelief. "Despite everything you've done? And betraying me only a few weeks ago?"

"Keep your enemies closer, they say." Joan's eyes taunted her. Dared her to say yes.

"Is that what I am now?" Vera asked carefully. "Your enemy?"

"Not entirely," Joan replied, her voice taunting.

"Are we friends?" Vera could scarcely get the question out. It seemed inconceivable but the mind of Joan Ferguson worked in odd ways.

"Not entirely," Joan repeated. Brown eyes watched her, amused, as Vera struggled with her thoughts.

"So what _are_ we?"

"In the short term?" Joan's eyes glittered and shot a glance towards Vera's bedrooms. "Housemates."


	9. The Odd Couple

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You all know the rules, ladies. There are certain things your housemate should never, ever mess with. If only Joan followed the rules…

Vera wasn't entirely sure how it had happened. One minute she lived alone in the two bedroom suburban house in Frankston she'd inherited from her mother. The next, Joan Ferguson, lived with her.

 _The_ Joan Ferguson.

Lived. With. Her.

It was madness.

Vera dealt with it like she did most things that seemed preposterous to the point of overwhelming – by ignoring it until it either went away or she was forced to face it.

She had tolerated, so far, her things slowly being moved around. Coming home to find her pantry contents alphabetised and the faint sting of disinfectant in the air. She had almost accepted seeing a steam cleaner being used on her shower cubicle on the weekend. Even though it came with a 6ft woman with a perfectly starched set of jeans and white linen shirt … and floral rubber gloves.

Gloves she paused long enough to snap at her, and twitch her lips.

Vera had been so speechless, she'd wandered off, shaking her head to try and clear the incongruous image.

They never spoke of it. Not any of it. Not the moving her junk or the cleaning or the weird thing with the spirit levels, lining up all her paintings so they were perfectly even.

But what she could not tolerate was this. Even Vera had her limits.

It was late, so late. She was tired. Exasperated, really, by the antics of Kaz Proctor who had decided to sabotage one of Vera's visits from the brass by getting the women to chant lewd limericks at them as they toured the facilities.

So much for her "new Wentworth". They made her look like a joke. When the guards bundled Proctor and her followers back inside for their whole-team punishment (that suddenly looked remarkably ineffective), Proctor had screamed one thing so loudly that the screeching tone was still seared on her brain.

"Betchya miss licking Fergie, eh, Vinegar Tits!"

The smirk on the faces of the men in the VIP tour party were not what bothered her. It was that they didn't bother hiding their expressions. Not even Channing, who was supposed to set the tone. Who was supposed to have her back – at least officially.

That was how much respect she really had underneath all the impressive press write-ups and talking points in the media. For all everyone's discussions about her bold new way of doing things, one prisoner's taunt had stripped her of authority on the spot.

There was no way Joan Ferguson would have allowed that to happen to her – not the taunt, nor the VIPs' reactions. She'd have left them in no doubt as to who was in charge.

Vera was a fraud, she knew, feeling sick. Her old boss had been right about that. She couldn't do this job. She was a shallow, hollow, lame pretender. She might have always wanted to be Governor, but that didn't mean she could do it.

Hell.

And now, right when she most wanted to go home and lick her wounds in private, decompress and polish off that nice Coonawarra white in the fridge, she instead had to run the gauntlet with the one woman she most didn't want to face.

Well, maybe, for once in Ferguson's astute life, she wouldn't notice Vera was bothered by something. Vera would just have to fix a neutral expression and go with it.

She could do that.

* * *

 

"What is it? What's happened?" were the first words out of Ferguson's mouth when Vera opened the front door.

Just great.

So much for any hope that the woman might be in bed. Her housemate wasn't one for indulgent late nights. She was usually reading in bed by now, some biography of a Machiavellian politician, and up again at five.

"Nothing," Vera lied. "Prisoners being prisoners. The usual."

Ferguson's eyebrow arched in that way it did when she didn't believe a word.

"Now," the former governor said, "why don't we try that again?" Her voice was a purr, an indulgent trill that one might try on a child caught in a lie.

Vera wanted to slap her. Seriously. This was _her_ home and if she didn't want to discuss how she wasn't respected at all in her own damn jail, that was her choice. She took a quick step forward and pain arced up her leg. She toppled over in agony.

"What?" Vera moaned. She stared incredulously at a coffee table that should not have been there.

"Oh," Ferguson said, neither moving nor offering to help her up, "I moved it."

"Obviously." Vera scowled. "Or I wouldn't have hit it, would I? Who puts a coffee table beside the door?"

"I was cleaning. It was in the way." Ferguson looked at her archly as though her pain was all her fault thanks to her clearly slovenly ways.

"My house was already fine," Vera argued, getting to her feet. "Give the extreme cleaning a rest."

"If it was already clean, I would not have had to move the furniture to get to the carpet. Would I?"

"All the…" Vera tentatively stuck her head around the corner and groaned. Her sofa was on its end and pushed against a wall. Everything was stacked neatly around the edges of the room. Her carpet gleamed like new. The smell was of sharp chemicals like she'd Agent Oranged her carpet. _Great_.

So much for her wine and flop plans.

"Put it all back. Right now," Vera said. "Jesus, after the day I've had…"

That got Ferguson's attention. "Oh?" she smiled. It didn't reach her eyes. "Do tell," she said lightly.

"Nothing. Just… Proctor. Showing her disrespect for authority."

"And this was somehow shocking to you?"

"Of course not. It's just…" She shook her head. "They all laughed."

"Prisoners do that. You might think you've split them all into their own tribes but it's war. Us and them."

"Not the other prisoners. Channing. And a bunch of VIPs. They laughed. With her. At me."

Saying it aloud enraged her all over again and Vera threw her bag into the corner of the room. Its contents slid out across the floor, a neat summary of her perfectly fucked up day. They both watched a lipstick skid under the bookcase, her hairbrush ricochet off the skirting board, and various other supplies puddle into a mess.

Ferguson stared at the chaos for a few moments, her face a myriad of discomfort, and then she climbed down to her knees, refiling the errant contents of her handbag, and then neatly placing it on the coffee table.

Her eyes, as she rose, were almost infuriating. Vera sensed Ferguson was laughing at her, too.

"When are your utilities back on?" she asked abruptly. "It's been four days."

"I have no idea," Ferguson answered. "I have made enquiries. They tell me there is a backlog. Are you trying to get rid of me?" Again that eyebrow slid up.

Vera exhaled. She warred with herself over whether she should be honest or her usual weak, conciliatory self.

"I'm sure you'd rather not stay here for long," she said, playing the ball right down the line. "Especially given it's clearly a pig sty."

"Not anymore," Ferguson noted. She tilted her head. "You do know why they laughed, don't you?"

"Why?" Vera asked tiredly.

"They were testing you. They want to know the sort of person you are. Will they be able to get away with doing this to you in the future without repercussions? Will you be a pushover? Will you be malleable? Will they be able to ram things through your office that they might not another governor?"

She punched the word 'another' leaving Vera in no doubt as to which Governor she meant.

Vera said nothing and headed for the kitchen. Ferguson wasn't wrong. Now she said it, it didn't seem far from the mark. It had felt they had watched her reaction a little too closely. She opened the fridge and hunted for her wine. She frowned.

And hunted further. She pushed her energy bars and margarine to one side and dug deeper. Nope. Nada.

She slammed the fridge door. "OK, where is my wine? It was in the door. Right here."

"It was an inferior vintage," Ferguson said, coming into the small room, "bordering on engine stripper. I did your palate a favour."

"You what?! You tossed my wine?"

"There is perfectly good vodka in the freezer. Here. You can…"

She was opening the door and Vera slammed it shut. "No! I don't like vodka. You _know_ that. You definitely know that. Can you just stop with all the…"

She waved her hands. The games. Ferguson played games. Vera knew that. For god's sake, why was she even surprised now?

She slumped in defeat. "I'll get a coffee. If that's OK with you?" Vera said snidely.

"You're letting them get to you," Ferguson drawled, unbothered. She reached for the kettle and began to fill it with water.

"Oh really," Vera said. She found a spoon, her coffee jar and sugar and put them on the counter.

Opening her cup cupboard, to the left of the sink, she was startled to find her vases.

"Where are my cups?" she asked, looking up at Ferguson in exasperation.

"Here," Ferguson said pulling open the cupboard above the fridge. "Much more efficient." She placed a cup on the counter.

"If you're six foot!" Vera said. "Stop it. I mean it. Stop moving my stuff around."

Ferguson tsked. "Your attitude, Vera. All you want to point out is minor faults with my system."

" _Minor_ faults? Joan, I can't _actually_ reach that cupboard."

"Semantics," she said with a wave. "Now would you like to know what I would have said to the misogynists at your place of work?"

Vera paused. Actually, yes, she'd like to know that very much. But she didn't want to look too eager. She stalled and reached over for the kettle as its whistle blew.

"Well?" Ferguson asked. She looked amused, as though she knew exactly why Vera was not answering.

Vera shrugged and poured water into her coffee cup. "If you want."

Ferguson was suddenly inside her space and leaning into her ear.

"Intimidate them. Remind them of their jobs and what they're supposed to stand for," she said in a determined voice.

"Me? Intimidate them? Have you looked at me lately?"

"Oh, I look at you quite often lately, Vera." The amusement was back and Vera wasn't sure how she was supposed to take that. "As you observe me. Has it been hard for you? Thinking about me when I'm in your shower? In bed?"

Vera blushed scarlet.

Ferguson laughed but it wasn't cruel for once. "Honestly, you are so easy. And they know it." She leaned closer. "Here's what I would have said: 'Something funny, gentlemen? As at least one of you heads up this institution and sets the standard that all others below you follow, I imagine your amusement would have to be in keeping with your position. After all, you must surely be capable of maintaining self-discipline to have gotten your jobs in the first place. Or am I mistaken?'"

Vera stared at her. "You expect me to say that to Channing? My boss!"

"No, that's what I would have said to him. But I wouldn't have had to because he never would have dared laugh at me to start with. Now, then, why is that do you suppose?"

Vera swallowed. _Because you're Joan Ferguson_ , she thought resentfully. _And the rules don't apply to you. Because you're an alpha and I'm an imposter._

She gave her an empty smile. "I'm not playing your games, tonight." She stirred her coffee, flung the spoon into the sink and took a deep swallow.

Its heat burned all the way down her throat. She tried desperately hard not to flinch.

"Too hot for you?" Ferguson asked softly.

"Not at all." She smiled through thin, pained lips. She wondered if she had first or third degree burns to her throat. And then she wondered which was which. She shakily put the cup back on the counter.

"Why are you here?" Vera asked suddenly.

"My utilities were disconnected."

Vera gave her an even gaze. "No, Joan. Why are you _really_ here?"

"You doubt me?"

"I do. I really, really do."

"I've already told you."

She shot her a look that said she wasn't talking about gas or electricity.

"Keep your enemies close?" Vera suggested.

"Something like that." Ferguson gave her a glittery smile. "And I do like to keep my intelligence network open so I know what happens at work."

"It's not _your_ workplace anymore."

"We shall see."

"You can't seriously expect to go back to work at Wentworth as though you didn't preside over it burning down with a prisoner in it?"

"I saved a baby," Ferguson said, her voice strangled. "I'm a _hero_."

"Joan, you put the baby at risk in the first place. How could you have allowed a child in the hands of a prisoner who was in jail for killing a baby she was babysitting?"

"Are you suggesting _I_ would put a child at risk? _Me_?" She looked enraged.

"Joan, come on. How did that even happen in the first place?"

"This isn't about me at all," Ferguson said in a slippery voice. "It's about you. Deflecting. Deflecting because you aren't coping, because you're terrified of failing at the one thing you've wanted all your life." Her eyes flashed. "How will it be, Vera, when you discover proof absolute that you are a fraud as a governor and your only dream is ashes."

"I don't know, Joan," Vera said looking her evenly in the eyes. "Tell me: How _does_ it feel?"

Vera folded her arms grimly and glared.

Ferguson said nothing for a moment then finally, she looked away. "I'm going to bed. Don't leave a mess." She eyed the coffee cup and spoon in the sink as though they were poisoned and turned to go.

"I can leave a mess if I want."

Ferguson froze, turned slowly back and stared. Her voice was pure threat. "Don't. Leave. A. Mess."

* * *

 

It was midnight when Vera woke up and wondered why. A cramp seared through her lower stomach and she clutched it mournfully. Oh god. She'd lost count of the days. She'd been so busy and …

She crawled out of bed, and headed for the bathroom. She stood under the stark fluorescent light, blinking herself awake as she opened her bathroom cabinet. Then she stared in dismay. She pulled everything out and, still, she couldn't find what she needed.

With a low growl of rage, she stormed into Ferguson's bedroom, flinging open the door. Hands on hips she flung her accusation at the shape in the bed: "Where the hell are my supplies?"

Ferguson slowly rolled over and then sat up. Even half awake, her hair tumbling over her shoulders messily, she was beautiful. Vera firmed her jaw and chose not to notice. (Again.)

"Supplies?" she murmured. "Are we drug cooks now? What are you going on about?"

"My ladies products!" Vera said, flapping her hand. "My …" she stopped. " _You know_."

Ferguson stared at her as the light from behind the opened door fell across the bed in sharp lines. Vera could make out the spaghetti thin straps on her nightwear.

"If you are referring to the products that 'dare not speak their name'," Ferguson drawled in obvious amusement, "then I filed your tampons in the cabinet under the sink. Where they were not so obvious to a casual visitor."

"Not… _obvious_?" Vera spat out. "Why would a casual visitor be going through my bathroom cabinet?" Vera glowered. "Of all the…" Her stomach clenched. "Never mind. I'll… be back. Jesus."

Five minutes later, after flushing, washing her hands, and staring at her dark-rimmed eyes in the bathroom mirror, she marched back into Ferguson's room. The woman was exactly as she left her. Regal. Impossible. Calm as could be.

It was insane. _Did she not understand the rules of not messing with a woman's personal effects? Did the damn woman have no boundaries at all?_

"All better now?" Ferguson taunted. "No wonder you were tetchy earlier this evening. Tell me, though, because you never did say, what exactly did Proctor say that had you in such a mess?"

Vera glared at her. "You did NOT just say that! Blaming my mood on my time of the month? Are you insane?"

Ferguson laughed, which just enraged her more. Finally Vera stalked over to the bed, leaned over her and looked her right in the eyes. "If you want to keep staying here, there are three rules: Never mess with my supplies again. Never mess with any of my stuff again. Never ever blame my moods on my time of the month. Any man in history knows that – why on earth don't you?"

"Look at me, Vera. Do I actually look like I willingly associate with men?" Ferguson purred. "Talk to them over assorted alcoholic beverages about how they treat their womenfolk?"

Vera slid her gaze over the woman in front of her. Her eyes paused on the low vee-neck of on her nightie. She could see the creamy swells and the lace of burgundy silk. She clenched her hands into fists.

"No," she finally said, shifting her gaze back to the knowing brown eyes watching her. "I don't think you go near men at all."

Ferguson smiled. "Correc-T. A waste of my time. I much prefer the company of women. I'm sure you know where I'm coming from? _Right, Vera?_ "

That mocking damnable voice. Vera had no doubt she was being toyed with. And the playful tone was messing with her already short-circuited hormones.

Before she could stop herself, she closed the distance, bent over, pressing her lips against Ferguson's, hard.

She pulled away, flushing, well aware she hadn't been kissed back. Well aware this, too, was all just a game.

"Stop being so maddening, damn it." Vera said in exasperation. Her heart was thundering now, as the adrenalin from the kiss coursed through her.

Ferguson's eyebrow lifted. She didn't even seem remotely surprised at being kissed.

"Did you expect me to do that to you?" Vera suddenly asked. _Was she so predictable? How could anyone read people so well?_

Ferguson's lips twitched in amusement. "I prepare for all contingencies."

"So what is all this? You staying? Are you trying to seduce me?"

"Now that would be an ineffectual use of my time."

"What?" Vera blinked at her in confusion.

"I don't need to seduce someone who is already mine for the plucking."

Vera stared at her in outrage.

" _What_? I'm what?"

"Am I wrong?"

"You're impossible," Vera snapped, turning on her heel furiously. "Leave me alone. And for the last time, stay the hell out of my stuff."

She slammed the door to Ferguson's room. As she stalked down the hallway, she heard low, amused laughter.


	10. Winning

 

Three weeks had gone by and Vera realised somehow Joan had moved in. She wasn't visiting, she was _in_. They had a routine. They had days allocated for things. Tuesdays and Thursdays Joan would do her own washing. Vera on weekends. Without discussing it, chores had been divided, the bulk done by Joan as she was home all day. At least Vera _presumed_ she was, as she had no evidence to the contrary.

She hadn't mentioned Joan going home again. Joan hadn't moved anything of Vera's again without permission. Or at least not without a questioning eyebrow lift until Vera moved it to where Joan believed it should be.

A truce had taken place and Vera wasn't entirely sure what she thought of it. Their conversations in the evening were always interesting and intelligent but Vera always got the impression Joan was merely biding her time. For what, Vera had no idea.

She unlocked her front door as she arrived home, shucking her Wentworth jacket and toeing off her shoes. She knew without looking that Joan would be watching her from the sofa in the lounge, as she always did, her eyes seeking out answers to questions unasked. _How had her day been? Who had done what to whom?_ Details. All the tiny details were keenly desired.

Sometimes Vera indulged her, sometimes she didn't.

She sighed in relief when her shoes came off and headed straight to the fridge, pouring herself a tall glass of wine. Another thing that had changed. Vera now left the bottom shelf of her freezer free for Joan's vodka. The fridge door was Vera's for whatever engine-coolant wine variety she favoured. No discussion had been needed on either topic.

Something meaty had been in the oven earlier. Vera's nose twitched. Every now and then Joan went through what Vera called her Eastern bloc cuisine phase. All manner of thick, stocky stews had appeared on the menu on occasion, to be divvied up into little casserole dishes and later frozen. Joan did like her regimented system.

Vera left the kitchen and came into the lounge to find Joan's attention fixed on the TV.

"House of Cards again?" Vera asked, sipping her wine. "I'd have thought even you'd get tired of political machinations after watching the whole series four times."

Joan merely smiled, not taking her attention off the screen. "I find it educational. And somewhat relaxing."

"It's not a documentary, you know."

"Isn't it?" Joan smirked.

Vera rolled her eyes and joined her on the couch. "I had an interesting meeting with Channing today."

"Oh?" Joan's eyes didn't move and her voice remained neutral but Vera felt the air suddenly charge.

"I think you can probably guess why."

Joan reached for the remote and turned off her show, swivelling to face Vera. "I think I'd like to hear your version of events."

"Channing said he had an application for the deputy governor's position, to replace Will. An applicant with a ridiculous amount of experience."

"Sounds promising. You should probably hire them."

"He said the applicant had also sent a lawyer's letter, pointing out she had been removed from her previous job and never offered a chance to be reinstated. Failure to acknowledge the dropping of all charges and the clearing of the client's name would be the equivalent of an unlawful firing. Reinstatement to Governor was the least the applicant could ask for if she was so inclined."

"How fascinating," Joan drawled.

"However that is not what the applicant requested. The lawyer's letter said that the _deputy_ governor position would be acceptable in light of this previous miscarriage of justice. And then it simply included her CV."

"And what did Mr Channing make of all this?"

"He told me throwing around the Governor position was just an ambit claim to get the deputy position."

Joan flicked invisible lint of her pants. "An interesting conclusion. Did it work?"

"Why didn't you just ask me? For the deputy position?"

"You have deniability this way, knowing nothing about it."

"Still..."

Joan waved her hand dismissively and watched as Vera took a sip of wine. "So – was Channing amenable to me filling your deputy slot?"

Vera choked on her mouthful. "You did that on purpose!"

"Did what?" Joan affected her most innocent expression. "Well? Channing? Must I drag it out of you?"

"He suggested we throw you a bone. You are, after all, the most qualified candidate, and try as he might, he couldn't find any loophole to prevent you still being eligible. And trust me, he was trying pretty hard. Besides no one else wants it.

"I think in the end, his relief that you weren't seriously asking for the top job, which would have been a much messier crapfest for him with the board, made it easy to say yes. Which is what you intended of course. Oh, and we both know you have dirt on him."

Joan gleamed. "When do I start?"

Vera didn't answer that. "When do you plan to take my job off me?"

"I'm taking your former job, currently unfilled, off you. A sizeable difference."

"You seriously expect me to believe that's all you want? And on that note, why Joan? Why did you stop where you did? Theoretically your lawyer's right: You lost your old job due to health reasons and the now no-longer-in-play criminal charges. You would be legally entitled to at least _try_ and be reinstated to your former job, no matter how unorthodox it would be. But, no, you went for the deputy position. I can't work it out."

"It wasn't necessary. And I prefer to take chalices that are not poisoned. A forced hand never works out. They have to _want_ me."

Vera stared at her. Joan's face was a mask but she knew a woman keeping secrets when she saw one.

Before she could press her for more, Joan tilted her head curiously.

"Why do you always take your jacket off?" she asked, flicking her gaze to the hook Vera had slung it on temporarily. "Every night you come home and throw it off you as though it's diseased."

"I'm home. Not at work." Vera said, confused by the change in topic. "What do you mean? You didn't wear yours at home 24/7."

"You shed it like it's an itchy skin, like you can't wait to be rid of it. Now why is that Vera? Do you feel that much of an imposter wearing it?"

Vera shot her an aggrieved look. "I don't feel like an imposter at all."

"Prove it. Go and put it on, Vera. Then look me in the eye and tell me you deserve to wear it. Make me believe it."

The challenge in her voice was maddening.

"This is ridiculous!" But Joan's eyes were serious. Vera rose and walked to her jacket. She slid it onto her shoulders and immediately felt its weight. Vera did up the buttons. She sagged a little, willing herself to project confidence and worth. If wishes were horses, we'd all be riding, her dad used to say.

Joan strode over to her. Her fingers dusted the little crowns on the shoulder that signified she was Governor, then slid down the seams. Her fingers took a scenic route and wandered across the swells of Vera's bust, then followed the fabric's fall to her hips. Her index finger slid back up the navy sleeve.

She leaned forward, so close that Vera could feel her hot breath. "Tell me again, Vera, how you feel wearing this jacket? And try to be honest this time."

Dozens of contradictory words sprang to mind. _Fraud, fake, pretender, ambitious, strong. Weak. Confused._ She shook her head. "I don't know why I indulge you," she muttered.

"A lie. I'll be kind and call it your first. Of course you know why you indulge me. But we aren't discussing your feelings for me."

Vera's mouth dropped open. "What feelings?"

Joan's eyes were lit with amusement and it made Vera squirm.

"Try again. How do you feel in that uniform?"

"I feel taller."

Well, it was true.

Joan eyed her. "Height is advantageous. But…." She paused and slid her eyes to the floor. "You do seem taller when you are in your uniform." She paused, her eyes shifting to the shoes Vera had kicked off. "How long have you worn higher heels?"

Vera licked her lips. "A month, I guess."

Joan's smile widened. "Since I came to stay?" she suggested. "Am I rubbing off on you? Are you emulating me? Well, even more than was obvious before?"

"Hardly," Vera protested. "It just seemed height would give me an advantage. It certainly does you."

"Ah. You think height is where I get my power to intimidate from?" She gave a short bark of laughter. "By that nonsensical criteria, the knuckle-dragging Mr Fletcher should make a most impressive governor."

"It's not _just_ height, of course," Vera said crossly.

"No. It most certainly isn't. So what is it? What is it about that uniform that makes you so uncomfortable?"

"Nothing. I don't feel uncomfortable."

"Lie No. 2. It's a simple question: Why do you prefer it off to on?"

Joan leaned forward and slowly undid the brass buttons which held together the garment across her white shirt.

"I don't," Vera protested. "I love being Governor."

"Lie No. 3. But closer to the truth. You love the _idea_ of being Governor. And you _thought_ you would love the job, but you don't. What you love is being near the power, not _being_ the power. It's intoxicating being in the orbit of power. I am well aware."

Vera's breath caught at her uncanny accuracy. Before she could answer, Joan stepped right inside her personal space. "And you know _all_ about being intoxicated by power," she murmured. Suddenly she pressed her lips against Vera's throat.

Vera felt herself clench between her legs. She gave a sort of half-strangled gasp. Joan dragged her teeth all the way down to her collarbone.

Once there, her fingers deftly loosened Vera's tie, plucked the top button of her shirt open and then covered the base of her throat with her mouth.

"I'm sure you're in the thrall of my power most of the time," Joan whispered against her skin. "The rest of the time, you're asleep in your sensible flannels. Am I wrong?"

Vera quivered. "I…" Then realised she couldn't think of an answer to that.

"That's what I thought," Joan purred. She undid the column of white buttons on Vera's shirt and then studied the front clasp on Vera's bra with a gleam.

"My, my," she said, "how convenient." She tapped the clasp. "I thought only teenaged girls used these."

Vera rankled at the jibe. "Hell of a seduction technique you have there."

"Oh Vera, this isn't a seduction," Joan said. "It's a demonstration of power."

In spite of the sane part of her brain screaming at her, Vera's hormones sat up. She reached for her jacket to take it off.

"No," Joan said instantly. "That stays. You're going to feel it. Against your bare skin. Feel what it's really like to embrace its power. Trust me: It's heady."

Vera paused at the thought of Joan's naked body against her own jacket. The thrill that shot through her made her tremble.

Joan pushed her towards her bedroom but Vera stopped her with a hand to her chest.

"God no," she hissed.

"Cold feet?" Joan asked, sounding more curious than anything else. "Does your need to hate my methods still outweigh how desperately you want my hands on you? Or are you going to deny how you feel again?" she taunted.

"I wasn't saying I don't want us to – it's just you're sleeping in what was my mother's bedroom. It's the last place I saw her ... before…"

Joan's eyebrow scraped her hairline. "When you took care of what needed to be done? I must say you impressed me with your deeds that day."

Vera shuddered. "And whose idea was that?"

"My idea, but your… execution."

Vera felt sick at the reminder. Her mother might have been terminally ill and abusive, not to mention manipulative and downright mean, but Vera still felt wracked with guilt for euthanising her as though she was little better than an old pet.

Vera's eyes drifted past Joan's shoulder to the bed. She could still see her mother lying there as Vera injected her with a quadruple dose of morphine. Her eyes … her eyes when she saw the second syringe come out – her mother _knew_. She didn't say a word. Just watched. At the third one – and wasn't this ironic? – Vera thought she almost saw respect in those normally hyper critical eyes. And by the fourth shot? The woman was too spaced out to know she was taking her last breaths.

"And there it is," Joan whispered in her ear.

"There what is?" Vera whispered, turning away.

"There is that little mouse I first met. The one who _feels_ for everyone. Who feels guilt and regret and shame, even when you've done the most practical thing. The only thing you could. Even your mother probably thanked you silently for her release but no, you're too busy feeling like a murderous failure."

Vera couldn't even look at her; the shame was still burning.

"Your mother and I came to an understanding," Joan said, after a beat. "She was vicious to you that night I first visited. She called you worthless. She was a vile, hateful woman. And so I whispered words into her ear that silenced her."

Vera was shaken from her reverie. "What on earth could you ever say to her that would make her quiet? I never found a way in decades."

Joan's face became still, her eyes half lidded. "I told her: 'Your daughter is not worthless to me. I have plans for her. She will be mine soon. Never yours again. Remember this: hurt my property at your peril'."

Vera's mouth fell open.

"You see? You wear that jacket – you wear power on your shoulders with these …" Joan flicked at the golden crowns "and you don't know the first thing about embracing it. Revelling it. Well tonight I will give you that lesson. Owning your power.

"So first thing to understand? That's not your mother's bed anymore. It's yours. You are the victor. Own that. Don't shy from it."

Vera gaped at her.

Joan pointed. "Now get on the bed."

* * *

Joan's fingers worked furiously, wrenching Vera's pants from her, then her panties. Pulling off her jacket, shirt and bra was all a blur until Vera stood before her, naked.

She had stood like this once before. Joan had given her a speech about loving her innocence. She'd thought Vera was someone else that night. Her dead lover. Tonight she didn't give her speeches on her virtue and sweetness. Tonight she stared at her with burning eyes, eyes which ran across her every line and curve and swell of flesh, like sharp claws, desperate to sink into her.

She held her Governor's jacket back out to Vera.

"Put it on," she ordered. "Put it on and lie down. Then open yourself for me."

Vera obeyed. She was good at obeying, she thought as she felt the slickness of the glossy lining against her flesh and the firmness of the mattress press into her back. It was the first time she'd worn the jacket and actually marvelled at it, instead of feeling its oppressiveness.

She spread her legs, slowly, deliberately, watching closely for Joan's reaction.

Joan said nothing. She slid off her own dark pants and Oxford shirt, folding them neatly and placing them on the dresser. She returned and stood before her in a black sports bra and panties. Her body was as honed as Vera remembered. Surprising for an office worker.

"You work out?" She asked the question she'd wanted to know last time but had been too awed to.

"Fencing. Keeps me supple. And dangerous. Remember that."

How could she ever forget her danger? She wasn't blind. Joan filled every corner of the room with her presence. Her aura oozed watchfulness and edgy, restless power.

Vera's eyes slid around the master bedroom. Joan's two suitcases sat neatly in one corner. A large ceramic pot holding Joan's beloved African violet was on a bedside table. The greeny yellow wallpaper. God how she'd hated this room for so long. It felt decadent and wrong now to be lying here, doing this. Like dancing on the devil's own bed.

"Are you revelling in it?" Joan whispered, as though reading her mind. "Your victory over the room's former inhabitant?"

Vera swallowed. "It wasn't a victory, for god's sake. It was a-a mercy killing."

"Who was put out of their misery, though? Her or you? Never mind, it's irrelevant. First lesson on power, Vera, is never _ever_ feel sorry for the vanquished. They don't deserve it."

Vera was still processing that when she heard the next words.

"Now: Touch yourself."

Vera blinked at the unexpected command. "What? Now? In front of you? In… here?"

"Of course." Joan looked genuinely amused and her voice lowered to a seductive trill. She leaned forward. "It's so naughty, isn't it?" she said. "Fingering yourself in this room. What a message for _her_. Did you even dare to masturbate under her roof? Was that _allowed_? Was it something you were too fearful to contemplate lest she burst in on you?"

"Can we stop mentioning her?" Vera pleaded, freaking out at how close to the bone Joan was cutting.

"The thrill will be stronger here, not just because I'm watching but because _she_ can't do a damn thing to stop you," Joan continued. "Because _you_ won. _You_ have the power. This is your house, your bed, your life now. And if you want to fuck yourself here, _right here_ , that's what you will do."

Vera's fingers moved between her legs tentatively, and her nipples hardened the moment she saw keen, sharp eyes watching her. Joan dropped to her knees at the foot of her bed, staring up her body, between her legs, directly into her eyes. "Fuck everyone, Vera," Joan snarled, "This is the power you need to own. What are you waiting for? Do you need _permission_?"

Vera felt a swirl of anger at the reminder of the way she'd been treated and her fingers picked up pace. Joan's slow curling smile told her she approved. Vera felt her excitement already starting to build as Joan's eyes darkened with desire. She let her fingers slide inside herself. In and out once. They came out slick.

Joan's hands suddenly came forward to rest on her ankles. She jerked her legs wide apart. Vera gasped at how exposed she was. So vulnerable.

"No need for shyness," Joan said. "You're fucking the universe now. Remember: Everyone in it is small and pathetic. It's all you. You are a god. They're all for the taking. You can pluck any of them you want. Own them. They're all beneath you. You wear that jacket. So act like it."

Vera's fingers slid faster and faster, and then skidded up to her clit. Joan's eyes didn't miss a beat, watching hungrily.

"Show me," Joan demanded hoarsely.

"What?" she croaked.

" _Everything_."

Vera spread her lips, showing her centre, glistening with arousal.

"Yes," Joan exhaled. "I can smell how much you want me. You _do_ want me, don't you Vera?"

"Yes," she whispered, rubbing harder.

"How much? How much do you want me?"

"So much." Her hand was a blur.

"You've always wanted me to take you, to make you mine. Mark you as mine."

"Ohhh," she groaned. "Oh."

"You'd have loved it if I'd bent you over my desk at work, hoisted up your skirt and shoved my fingers in and just kept on discussing the duty reports with you. If my tone didn't even change while you came undone all over my hand and your wetness ran down your stockings and legs. I'd have sent you back to work like that."

The image flashed into her mind and Vera felt herself clench tightly.

"Or what if I did it to you during a staff meeting? Fucked you in front of all of them, so they could see how much I own you, how you were all mine and none of them, especially not Fletcher could lay a claim on you. None could touch you. But they'd want to. Would you like that, little Mouse? The shame of it? The thrill of it? Your pretty little cunt being played with in front of everyone?"

Vera groaned and her cheeks flamed hotly at the image. It was _so_ wrong. So much of all of this was wrong. She wanted to say so but her own arousal was now seeping from her traitorous body.

"Oh my, how embarrassing. I think you liked that thought _very_ much," Joan laughed. "I'm rather fond of it myself. I've had that fantasy at a few staff meetings."

Vera's stared at her in shock which only made Joan laugh more. "What? Only you are allowed to fantasize about me taking you?"

"Do you do that often?" Vera asked incredulously. "Want me, too?"

" _Want_ is such an interesting word, Vera," Joan said and she rose from her knees with her cat-like suppleness. "You see a want as a thing to seek out. I see it as part of a bigger picture. A means to an end. Never the end goal.

"Now," she added, "time for the rest of your lesson." She slid her panties to the floor and removed her bra.

Vera stared, her fingers pressed to her twitching clit, frozen by the sheer charisma Joan Ferguson exuded when naked. She really was a god. Oh, she damn well knew it, too. Vera would swear she was striking a pose for her.

"Look your fill, because you won't get to touch."

"What?" Vera asked, and then was dismayed it came out as little better than an indignant squeak.

"Power," Joan said crawling on the bed, her lean, long limbs framing Vera's torso, "is like a beast you tame."

Without preamble, three of her fingers slammed inside Vera.

Her eyes rolled back in her head at the sensation then blindly reached forward for Joan's breasts, only to have her hand slapped away hard.

That got Vera's attention.

"Power also means control," Joan said. "For example, right now I am dictating the terms of your release while maintaining complete control."

"Complete… Wait, you don't plan … on… you don't _want_ to come?" Vera gasped, disbelieving.

"That's not the lesson for today."

"What if I say I don't want to play by those rules?"

"We both know you'll play by my rules if the alternative means you don't play at all. Don't we, Vera?"

Joan worked her fingers deeper inside Vera and her thumb bumped her clit pointedly.

Right at that moment Vera hated a great deal how good Joan was making her feel, while highlighting her inability to deny her a damn thing. She wished she had the willpower to tell her where to shove her lessons on power. And then tell her to pack up and go home.

Instead, Vera's hands clenched at the sheets, her toes coiling and uncoiling. Her arousal built and built and just as she felt sure the tremors would seize her, Joan stopped. She withdrew her fingers and held them to the light.

Viscous wet trails hung from her fingers. Vera turned away from the sight, embarrassed by the proof of her neediness. Her body still ached and twitched, desperate for release.

"Look at you. You're in a terrible way. So ready to explode under my hand. You look like you'd do anything to have me touch you. You'd rut my wrist right now. My thigh. You'd die on the spot if I took you with my mouth. How long have you wanted me to take you, Vera? How long have you dreamt of me holding you?"

Vera gritted her teeth and shut her eyes. Fuck Ferguson. She wished her body would stop sending powerful little jolts of electricity through her long enough so she could think straight.

"You're braver than that," Joan purred and slid her fingers down Vera's face leaving a sticky trail. "Look at me. Good. Now answer me. After all - you've got on your little jacket of courage, haven't you? Makes you feel taller?"

Vera glared at the mocking face. "No, Joan, I don't want you. Or dream of you. I don't even like you some days."

"I wonder," Joan murmured, "Does it count for double when you lie to yourself?"

"What do you want from me?" Vera asked. "We both know you don't give a shit about me. This is all fun and games for you."

"You already know what I want." Joan's sticky fingers trailed over to Vera's nipple, pushing the jacket further aside and ringed the puckering flesh. She slid down to her belly button and tapped the tiny indent with her finger. "Tell me what I want, Vera. Get it right and I might even reward you with what you desperately desire."

Vera stared into cold eyes watching her and knew. _Hell. She'd been a fool. Stamp it on her forehead._ Her shoulders slumped.

"My job." Vera stared at her in disbelief. "It's always been about my job, hasn't it? You want to be Governor again. That's all this is. You've been playing me for weeks. You just want me to give you my job."

" _My_ job." Joan corrected, her finger idly moving south to Vera's pubic hair, combing it. "And you can't give it to me. Not yet."

"I won't give it up," Vera vowed. "I've earned it. I've worked hard for it." She glared at Joan, who short-circuited her brief foray into defiance by parting Vera's lower lips, leaning forward while watching her with dark eyes. Then she sliced her tongue up her swollen slit. She repeated it in the other direction. Then lifted her head once more.

"Oh god," Vera moaned, her back arching.

A smug grin spread across Joan's face, moisture wet across her chin and lips. Joan licked her lips slowly.

"Partially correct, so a partial reward. But you haven't worked hard for it. Unless you feel betraying me to the board was a hard day's work."

The tone was so cold now, in complete contrast to the warmth of Joan's fingers still teasing around her clit. Her eyes contained a blackness so deep it made Vera shudder. Joan studied her reaction.

"That arouses you, little Mouse?" Joan asked with deceptive softness. "Remembering betraying me? I suppose there's hope for you yet."

Vera shivered again and a part of her wanted to rip herself from Joan's lethal gaze and flee this room. To hide while she still could. But something held her there. She was frozen under those dead eyes.

"You thought I would forget," Joan drawled and her thumb suddenly pressed brutally against her clit. Vera convulsed at the dual agony of pleasure and pain. "Wrong. I. Forget. Nothing."

Vera felt fear and dismay flood her even as she felt a thrill at the danger the other woman possessed, coming off her in waves.

"Afraid now, are we?" Joan whispered and ran her fingers down to Vera's entrance, circling it thoughtfully. "Or turned on?"

Vera arched into the touch and cursed her body once more.

"Oh? You still want me even though you finally understand how foolish it was to let the beast who never forgets live inside your home?" Joan shoved her fingers inside her. "Watching, learning, scheming?"

Vera swallowed.

"Do you want to know what the ultimate power is?" she asked, eyes burning into Vera's. "The ultimate thrill?"

As she taunted her, her thumb slammed into the side of Vera's clit and stayed there. Vera wriggled against it. Joan refused to let her shift away, clamping her forearm across her waist.

"No, no, little Mouse, no time to run now. Not when you're so close to the final lesson. And you always were _such_ an apt pupil."

"Joan. Please!" Vera said, not entirely certain what she was asking for.

"My name's Miss Ferguson," Joan said in her most Arctic voice. Her eyes glittered. "But you can call me Governor."

The slap of experiencing once more that voice, that look, those lines delivered exactly the way they were the day they met – the day Vera first fell for this fierce, controlled creature, was enough.

"Oh, oh, I'm…" she gasped in shock.

"Yes," Joan purred, "Yes you are. You're coming for me. Now say my name."

"J-…"

"No! Try again."

"Miss …Misss oh…" Vera arched.

"Almost," Joan whispered. "So close to getting it right."

"Governor!" Vera cried out. The orgasm was the strongest one she'd ever experienced, curling her toes, flooding her, and igniting her belly. Her neck bruised from where Joan suddenly leaned forward and bit at it, before scraping her tongue up her throat.

Hot breath filled Vera's ear.

"Final lesson: What is ultimate power? Winning even when you're in the unwinnable position. If you can do that, if you can reclaim your standing from rock bottom when everyone thinks it's over for you; when you can rub it in the faces of those who've betrayed you? Now that's true, unfettered power. _That's_ when you are a god."

There was a pair of sharp tugs and a rending noise. Vera blinked in horror to find Joan now holding two torn pieces of cloth in her hand, each with the golden crown insignia from the shoulders of her uniform jacket.

Joan studied them for a beat, a strange, delighted expression washing her face. Her chin suddenly trembled, her eyes tightened and then she slumped forward onto Vera, her naked cunt sliding into Vera's. With two guttural grunts, as though wrenched from the pit of her soul, she furiously rubbed herself against Vera and shuddered, her face changing.

For the briefest of moments, a look of ecstasy flashed across her as she succumbed to the lack of control she fought so hard to prevent in every waking moment of her life. Then it was gone, like a light going out.

Vera felt her full weight slump on her, crushing the air from her.

Finally, as Vera began to gasp for oxygen, Joan rolled off her. Vera could see the wetness between Joan's legs and smell the desire she'd pretended she never felt. Or at least a desire she never felt for her former deputy.

But a desire for winning?

Well, Joan Ferguson clearly had a hard-on for that.

"I always said I was coming for these," Joan whispered, shifting and holding up her hands that still clenched the pieces of torn fabric.

Vera stared at her. "You think you've won?" she asked, her voice low and hard. Her mind whirred. She gasped. "You think you've won."

Joan merely studied the cloth.

"Joan? What have you done?"

Joan smiled and the satisfaction wrapped around her like a blanket.

"What I had to."


	11. Business

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I have had to split my final chapter into two as it was getting too long. Here's the first half.

 

**Wentworth Protection Unit**

**Four months later**

Wentworth's top officer walked the dark, long corridor until she came to the end cell. She felt more powerful – stronger, taller – due to the firm pull of her Governor's jacket.

The lighting here was kept deliberately low to dull the prisoners' moods and keep them from creating a fuss. Protective custody did funny things to a person. They spent too long dwelling.

She came to a large dark window, beyond which she could see a female shape on the bed. The figure rolled over to face her.

The two women studied each other for a long moment before the Governor finally spoke.

"Hello, Vera," Joan drawled and offered a slow, curling smile.

For the first time in a year, since Wentworth had burned to the ground, the smile actually reached her eyes.

* * *

Vera sat up, her legs shifting to a cross-legged pose and regarded the woman watching her.

"I wondered when you'd come. It wasn't like you _not_ to gloat."

Joan's eye fell to a pile of books and a notes scattered across the cell. "I love what you've done with the place."

"I'd offer you a seat but until my bail hearing next week I'm not set up for visitors."

Joan studied her intently.

"What?" Vera asked acidly. "Trying to work out how broken I am? Sorry to report, I'm not broken in the least, _Deputy_. No thanks to you."

"It's Acting Governor now. Governor, _very_ soon. Channing's doing the paperwork as we speak."

"Your run from deputy to governor would have to break a new record. What's it been? Four months?"

"Talent rises to the top."

"And shit floats. You expect me to believe you haven't been white-anting me for months? Asking to do the VIP Wentworth tours? You were positioning yourself, weren't you? Auditioning for my job for months, right under my nose. God, and I was too dense to see it."

"I'm curious, Vera – why do you persist in assuming the worst of me?"

Vera snorted. "I'm in here because of you. Because you spent a month pawing through my stuff at home until you found what you needed to sink me. Don't deny you're the anonymous source the police have."

"So suspicious," Joan tsked. "There are pills for paranoia. Look into it."

"Of _course_ it was you! Who else had access to my papers?"

"I hardly think your situation has anything to do with me. But, regardless, it would be a most fitting conclusion to betrayal. _Karma_ , Vera. Delicious, is it not?"

Vera scowled at her. "Karma? What about what you did to Jodie Spiteri? Tortured her? Fletch? You got your thug to run him over?"

"That was business, Vera," Joan said, tapping the glass pointedly. "Lessons needed to be taught and understood. Like you, being in here. You took from me something I treasure. You stole my position by telling the board lies about who I am. You betrayed me. I have merely reclaimed my power. See? Business."

She leaned closer to the glass and dropped her voice to a taunt. "Did you know, Vera, after the police hauled you away last week during that embarrassing scene in front of the media, that Channing came begging for me to take over again? Did you know that?"

Vera glared at her mutinously.

"And you might be interested to know I've shut it down, Vera. All your little schemes. The yoga. The art. The law classes. Library. The drug rehab program. It's all gone. Not to mention your tribal rewards/punishment program."

Vera stared at her in horror. "But it was _working_!"

"It was a foolish enterprise that got its deserved end."

"Foolish? Channing loved it."

"Until a few days ago."

"What?" Vera asked. "What happened?"

"It seems someone got it into their head to launch a class action to challenge the legality of punishing innocent prisoners along with the guilty. Your 'one in, all in' approach is not exactly justice being fairly served, now is it?"

"Let me guess: You put the idea into their heads?"

Joan's lips twitched. "Who can say how people reach certain conclusions? But the board is nothing if not pragmatic and they would rather have me in charge, with my proven methods, than you with your Lord of the Flies experiments and abandonment of prisoner rights."

She smiled a dark, smug smile that Vera had seen before. She uncoiled from her cot and approached the window.

"This wasn't really 'business', was it?" she challenged. "It was personal. Revenge."

"I wouldn't flatter yourself."

"You love revenge, though. It's in your blood. What about Will? You tried to frame him because of a vendetta going back _decades_. Because he took the child off your dead lover. A woman who was killed because of you!"

Joan slapped the hardened glass and snapped: "Betray me at your peril, Vera. I told your mother that. I warned you, too, of the consequences of not being loyal. And you threw it away. _All_ of it. You deserve to be here. Betrayal deserves punishment."

Vera stared her down. "It was never business. At least be honest about that."

"You were nothing but my pawn. A chess piece I settled on a year ago to return me my crown. You were effective – until you weren't. And now you're entirely unnecessary."

"Yes, I was your pawn. _Past_ tense. Until I won the game. Then you had to have me arrested to break me. You won't, by the way. And you want to know what the saddest thing is? You don't even understand what _you've_ thrown away. You weren't the only one betrayed. Our friendship _was_ real at one point. It was something worth fighting for."

Joan gave a nasty snicker. "Our friendship was entirely a lie. I played you. I will be _cheerleading_ when you're found guilty."

Vera leaned her head against the glass. "No, Joan, you won't. You told me the first lesson on power is 'never ever feel sorry for the vanquished'. And look at you. You're here with me instead of off ruling your dominion."

"You think I feel _sorry_ for you? Silly, silly Vera. I came to gloat."

"No. You didn't. You wanted to check up on me."

Joan's laugh was low, long and cold. "So naïve. Try to follow: You lost, I won. You were amusing for a while but now it's time we parted ways. It's over, Vera."

"It's not over. Because the game's still in play. You _know_ that."

Joan's derisive laughter filled the corridor as she walked away.

* * *

The bail hearing for Crown vs Bennett came three days later.

Vera had been going stir crazy waiting for it. Much of her time had been spent going over her last conversation with Joan. Maybe she was naïve, and a fool. Maybe Joan had played her the entire time. It would be in keeping with past form. It was probably just ego but a tiny part of her rebelled against that thought.

She looked down as she was escorted under guard from the holding cells into the court room, feeling eyes on her, hearing whispers. A bank of journalists lining one wall watched her keenly, some taking notes. A prison governor in court was sensational news.

She was the first case of the day.

Vera knew without looking at the public gallery that Joan was there. She'd know that feeling, the way the room felt charged when the other woman was in it, anywhere.

"All rise for the Honorable Peter Flemming."

She rose with the rest of the room and waited while the Chief Stipendiary Magistrate nodded and everyone sat.

"What do we have?" he asked boredly, shuffling his papers.

"Bail application hearing," the prosecutor said. "Vera Bennett."

"Where do I know that name?"

"Former Wentworth Prison governor. She's charged with the homicide of one Rita Bennett, the mother."

The magistrate's eyes flicked to Vera and his eyebrows lifted in surprise as he took her in. Vera's fingers trembled as she clasped them on the table in front of her. She was still in a prison uniform because she had no one to pick up her best outfit from home.

How depressing.

"What does the Prosecution suggest?"

"No bail, Your Honour. The defendant has no ties to the community; no family, no friends. No one to stay with. She's lost her job. She's a flight risk."

Vera heard the words and felt hollow. Her cheeks reddened. No friends. No family. Joan was probably smirking at that. Nausea rose up.

"No ties at all?" The magistrate flicked his eyes doubtfully over Vera who couldn't meet his eyes.

"No, Your Honour," the prosecutor agreed.

"All right." The magistrate turned to the bench at his front left, as the prosecutor resumed his seat. "OK. Defence?"

"We request bail," a short, pudgy man said, rising. Tony Polaski was somewhere between a crappy and a mediocre lawyer. Vera hadn't decided exactly which yet, given she'd spent all of three minutes with him before the hearing. He hadn't exactly devoted himself to her cause.

His shirt was wrinkled and bore large sweat stains under each arm. His expression was hangdog, and he peered at her through black-rimmed glasses of the style her father used to wear in the fifties.

She had plans to get a better lawyer for her later trial but that took money, and she was still working out how, between paying off her mother's funeral and medical bills. She'd probably have to put the house on the market.

"Miss Bennett has a spotless record, no priors, not even a speeding ticket," Polaski said. "She held a respected position at her workplace where she was held in esteem by her peers and superiors. Any crime would be considered most out of character for her. She has an exemplary record."

"Mmph." The magistrate looked over the paperwork, flicking pages back and forth. "When's the matter set down to be heard in the Supreme Court?" he asked the prosecutor, who shot back to his feet.

"Nine months' time, Your Honour. February 21."

"Given her previous occupation I presume she's in protective custody now?"

"Yes, Your Honour."

"That's a long time to be held in isolation awaiting trial. Oh… she's …" Flemming paused. "Am I reading this right? Is she being held in the same facility that she used to run?" The magistrate looked at the prosecutor incredulously. "How is this not an abuse of her rights?"

The prosecutor jumped back to his feet and looked worried at the claim. "Your Honour, protective custody slots are full in all other jails due to the bikie raids last week – we have to keep the rival parties separated. I'm assured the general prison population has no knowledge of Bennett's presence."

The magistrate turned to a narrow desk near the right wall. Half a dozen members of the media scribbled notes furiously, shooting furtive looks at Vera.

"I will be putting in place a suppression order on the location of this prisoner. Members of the Fourth Estate are to make no reference in your stories to the fact Vera Bennett is in Wentworth Prison. Is that clear?"

The heads bobbed up and down, many with disappointed expressions.

"Disgraceful, Peters," the magistrate muttered. "Victoria Police hasn't heard of transfers? Move some of the other prisoners around to make space for her? It's criminal. Or is someone somewhere making a point?" His bushy eyebrow arched at the thought.

"The advice given to me was that it's a logistics issue, Your Honour," the prosecutor said hastily. "And we have been assured she'll be moved if bail is refused."

The magistrate lifted his hand. "On that topic, let's continue. The nature of the charges are serious… Bail is not common for murder cases but given the circumstances, you would be a candidate." He paused and addressed Vera directly.

"Miss Bennett, are you certain you don't have an address you could stay at – someone the court could be satisfied is a trusted member of society while you're out on bail? Do you have no one at all?"

Vera exhaled. And right there her shitty personal life had come home to roost. Oh she had a plethora of acquaintances, but with Fletch off in the wilds, she had no one she felt right asking a favour this big from. Barely able to lift her eyes to his, she mumbled, "No, Your Honour, I don't have anyone."

A movement caught the corner of her eye and Vera turned.

"If it pleases the court?" said a rich voice from the rear of the room. Joan Ferguson climbed languidly to her feet. "I could provide supervised accommodation for the defendant at my home until the trial."

Vera almost choked.

"Ahh. Governor Ferguson, isn't it?"

The magistrate received a curt nod and eyeballed Vera over his glasses. "Well there we go," he smiled encouragingly. "I assume that is agreeable to you, Miss Bennett?"

Joan's eyes contained a hint of challenge. She arched her eyebrow at Vera, who promptly turned back to face the front of the court.

What the hell was Joan up to now?

She felt her elbow nudged.

"What are you waiting for?" her lawyer hissed. "Say yes before he changes his mind!"

"She's the woman who got me thrown in here in the first place," Vera whispered back urgently. "She's trying to mess with me some more. She's up to something. Trust me."

"Who cares as long as she's going to do it to you on the _outside_ ," Polaski said. "Do you _really_ want to spend the next two-thirds of a year in protective custody?"

_Well, when he put it like that…_

Vera looked at the magistrate, who was eying her impatiently. "It is acceptable," she said.

"All right. Bail is set at $350,000. Strict reporting conditions to police, three times a week, and surrender your passport. You must stay at Governor Ferguson's address until your trial. _Next case_."

There was a hubbub as the media rose to file their stories. Vera was at a loss. She stood automatically, propelled from the bench by the guard, but her heart was in her shoes. She didn't have $350,000. Nowhere near it. She was basically completely screwed. Again.

She glanced behind her. Joan was watching her, wearing her usual, oh-so smug look. Yep. She knew it, too.

* * *

Vera was led to a small interview room at the courts, a security guard outside. Her lawyer had gone to lodge some paperwork with the clerk of the court.

While he was out, Joan swept in. Vera shouldn't have been surprised: So much gloating, so little time.

"Did you enjoy that?" Vera asked snidely as Joan arranged herself in the orange plastic chair opposite. "Offering to put me up? Was it to mock my lack of friends?"

"I did no such thing," Joan said, leaning back in the chair. She laced her fingers over her stomach. "After all, you supplied the mockery all on your own."

She tilted her head. "You've lost weight since I last saw you."

"Prison food doesn't agree with me."

"Don't give up now, little mouse. You assured me you weren't broken. Or was I misinformed?"

Vera sighed. "Just get it over with. Whatever this is."

"Well 'this' is me asking whether you can meet bail."

"You know I can't. I'll have to sell Mum's place. I have no other choice."

"Yes you do."

"What?"

"I've made arrangements to post your bail."

"It's $350,000!"

"Which I will get back when you appear at trial. Failure to do so is not advised." Her face darkened in grim warning. "You _will_ appear."

"Joan, for god's sake, what is this? You're the one who got me locked up to start with Now this?"

"I think you did that without any help from me."

"Don't be obtuse. I let you stay at my place and you went through my things. Who else could dig up my receipt for Mum's morphine and her prescription and send them anonymously to the cops?

"They had all the details. They said: 'So Miss Bennett, if you bought a ten-pack of morphine the day before Rita Bennett died, and her prescription is for one dose a day, why were only five vials found in your fridge by our officers on the day she died?' That's pretty specific information, don't you think?"

"How thorough our boys in blue are."

"They said the coroner had long ago waived the toxicology report showing her high levels of morphine because so many terminally ill patients are on high doses. But your dirty little antics made her death suddenly look sinister."

"But it _was_ sinister, Vera."

"Thanks to you!"

"I'm hearing a lot of wild accusations and not a lot of thanks." Joan folded her arms.

"Why are you doing this? Helping me now?"

"I'm sure you have a theory?"

"You're trying to screw me over twice? Is that it?"

"Vera, you said it yourself: The game isn't over. We have to finish the game."

"What if I don't want to play anymore?"

"Suit yourself," Joan said, rising. "Enjoy prison. I hear once a fortnight they even let protective custody prisoners into the exercise yard. Of course that's at the governor's discretion. Which, of course, is me."

Vera exhaled. "This is blackmail."

Joan smirked. "Yes, Vera, it is. Now you're catching on."

* * *

Vera dropped her bag on the floor of Joan's apartment and looked around. Not much different from the last time she'd been here. Same faint smells of disinfectant and pot pourri. Same insanely clean surfaces, all timber and raw brickwork. Industrial but warm.

"My guest bedroom is down here."

Joan picked up Vera's bag and headed down the hallway.

Vera followed her into what turned out to be a pleasant room in shades of blue. A double bed sat in the middle of the polished timber floors. It looked new. A window overlooked a terrace garden.

"This is lovely," Vera said. She meant it, too. She tested the bed. Extra firm.

"Well don't get used to it," Joan said but her tone took the sting out. "Vodka?"

Vera rolled her eyes. "You know the answer to that.

"Engine-coolant wine?"

Vera nodded.

"Naturally." Joan headed for the kitchen. Vera trailed after her.

"Why did you pay my bail?" Vera asked.

"Keep your enemies close, they say."

"That's such a stupid saying. You mocked me for it when I took you in, like a fool."

"The problem, Vera, is that back then you didn't truly believe I was your enemy."

"Don't worry, that's been rectified."

"Good. You're learning." Joan opened the fridge and removed a bottle. She poured out a glass of wine and returned the bottle to the fridge.

Vera picked up the glass and took a test sip. She froze. This was the same brand and vintage of Coonawarra white that Joan had tossed from her house.

Their gazes locked. Joan's eyes betrayed her amusement at her reaction, so Vera deliberately said nothing about it.

Vera placed her glass on the kitchen counter, and ran her fingers across the smooth surface. "So how much did you laugh when you realised I had no friends?"

Joan, who was pouring herself a vodka, didn't reply immediately. "That would be hypocritical of me. I'm not exactly rich with friends myself."

"So you took me in because you felt sorry for me?" Vera asked in disbelief.

"Don't be absurd, Vera. I don't feel sorry for anyone. This was also business." She added ice cubes to her glass.

"That doesn't help. Why am I really here? What's that Machiavellian brain of yours up to?"

Joan took a slow sip before replying.

"Well, if you're desperate for some explanation, why not tell yourself that I owed you some free hospitality, since I abused yours," she said dryly.

"Oh, and just so you know?" Joan added, leaning closer. "Unlike you, I don't keep any incriminating evidence on site."

Vera glared at her. "A confession? Finally."

Joan smirked.

"I've been thinking," Vera said. "Maybe when the magistrate was shocked I had no friends, you forgot you hated me for a split second. That's why you made the offer?"

"Vera, do you seriously believe I could ever forget anyone I hate?" Her tone was cool, her eyes intent. Before Vera could think of a reply, Joan rinsed her glass under the tap and placed it in the dishwasher.

"I've already eaten," she continued. "But help yourself to the facilities. Towels are under the sink in the bathroom."

Dismissed, Vera stared after her retreating form. She stood still, staring at her glass of wine and hearing a loudly ticking chrome clock.

_OK so this wasn't weird at all._

She gulped down her wine and added the glass to the dishwasher. She found Joan seated regally in the lounge, watching TV.

"House of Cards?" Vera asked.

"Of course."

"Mind if I sit?"

"Yes. I mind."

Vera felt stung and was leaving the room when Joan spoke again.

"But you may sit anyway."

Vera found a spot one seat along from Joan and fixed her eyes on the screen.

"You have potential, Vera," Joan said after a long silence. "A shame you keep wasting it."

Vera shook her head. "I could say the same about you. Why you waste it all on a life so fixated on a job that won't make you happy is beyond me."

"But the job does make me happy. It's you who hated it. I did you a favour, extricating you from that seat."

Vera's head snapped around in shock. "A favour! Are you kidding me?"

Joan nodded serenely. "Actually yes. And I do know that when you're cleared of these charges, you won't want it back either."

"When I'm cleared? But you sent them proof!"

"Sort of." Joan sighed, hit pause on her program and eyed her. "I sent them a receipt that had the date altered on it. To all intents and purposes it looks real but if they ever cross-checked it properly with the pharmacy, it'll will be proved a fake. It's a technicality but you will get off."

Vera stared at her in astonishment.

"Of course, at any time I could furnish the real receipt. Remember that. But for now, you can easily get out of this."

"Joan? What …? Why are you telling me this?"

"I told you it was business. It was only ever about getting the governorship. And now it's officially mine. As of yesterday."

"But if the charges are dropped I can do what you did! Get my old job back."

"You won't, though." Joan said knowingly. "We both know you don't have the heart for it. I wouldn't have told you about the receipt if I didn't know that was true."

"You sound so sure."

"I know people. I see you, Vera. Your wants, your desires, your secret shames. Like how you still want me, even though I've done this to you." Her eyes roamed Vera's body in a way that made her shift uncomfortably.

"I do not!" Vera protested hotly.

"Liar," Joan whispered. She paused and cocked her eyebrow. "Do you want some more of your vile swill?"

Vera felt her entire world made no sense. "I don't understand. You. This. But mainly you."

"I know." Joan nodded and turned back to the TV. "No one does."

"So you really did all this to me just to get a lousy job back? God, Joan, you seriosuly have to work on your scorched earth policy on getting what you want."

"No need. I have everything I require now."

There was no uncertainty in Joan's response. Like stating the sky was blue.

"Really?" Vera eyed her sceptically. Surely the woman's friendless, sterile, morally dubious life could be improved upon?

"Yes. Everything."

Joan indicated her TV. The face of political villainy was on screen. "Now be quiet. Revenge is afoot."

* * *

Vera fidgeted while her lawyer brought out her file. It had been eight weeks since she'd first been charged, and this was, hopefully, the end of it.

"Let's see…" Polaski began. "The receipt was for DBL Morphine Sulphate Injectable 30mg ampoule 10-pack from Amcal Pharmacy in Frankston. September 22." He consulted a letter from Victoria Police.

"The first time police went to that chemist, the staff took one look at it and said it was real. Which, to be fair, it would look like to them if a certain someone had only altered the date of a real receipt.

"Second time, a few weeks ago, after we suggested to the police it was a fake, they went back and the pharmacy did a look-up in the system and couldn't get a match on that date. You're in the clear.

"Even if the cops did find the real receipt, this whole thing smells so fishy, that they're stepping well clear now. They know a set-up when they see one. Your case is too high-profile to pursue when the fix looks in."

"So what now?"

"They've apologised in a roundabout way: They've been asking whether there's anyone you'd like to charge with theft of your paperwork?"

Polaski looked at her hopefully. Given the threadbare state of his office, there was little wonder why he was trying to drum up business.

"Not right now," Vera said. "I'm keeping my options open, though."

"You sure? Because staying with a woman who means you harm must be hell."

"That is one word for it," Vera demurred.

He wouldn't believe the actual word for it. No one would believe Joan Ferguson at home was actually so… domestic.

* * *

Vera didn't tell Joan about being cleared. She continued staying with her, reasoning that any day now, Joan's true intentions would be revealed. She needed to stay close to her to figure out what she was up to. It's what Joan would do, after all. She was merely staying one step ahead of an enemy.

Or that's what she convinced herself.

She hadn't even cancelled the sale of her house that she'd put on the market to pay for her Supreme Court trial. And hadn't that been a surprise?

She'd watched the real estate ads appear in the paper and had done nothing to stop it. She even turned up for the auction. And when it sold (for a middling price her mother would have sneered at), she walked away, feeling oddly content.

She turned to find Joan also watching proceedings, leaning against Vera's car. It shocked the hell out of her. She hadn't even told Joan the auction was happening.

"Not fond of it, then?" Joan asked, nodding at the house as Vera sighed and headed over.

"Apparently not."

Joan smiled. "I have some rather strong fervent memories of the place myself."

"I'll bet." Vera unlocked her car.

"A chapter closes," Joan said. "What next for Vera Bennett?"

She shrugged. Truthfully, she had no idea.

"Your charges were dropped two months ago," Joan continued. "My bail money was returned. Congratulations."

Vera peered at her. "You've known for two months?"

"And so have you. A fact you neglected to share. Why?"

Vera reddened and could think of nothing to say.

Joan studied her with hooded eyes. The silence dragged on. People passed them, going back to their cars, discussing the auction. A boy on a bike rode past.

Still Vera said nothing.

"I have a batch of House of Cards at home, ready for a marathon."

The invitation was implied.

"You know I don't actually watch that show. It's too… too."

"Heresy," Joan said archly. "Meet me back at home. I will make you a believer." She pushed off from the car and turned to head back to her own.

"Joan?"

"Yes?"

"What are we doing?"

"I have no idea what you mean." Joan's cool eyes regarded her.

Vera nodded, her stomach sinking. "OK."

* * *

Vera was developing a fondness for House of Cards. Not that she would admit it to Joan. The other woman knew anyway. Joan knew everything. It was her way.

They'd been sharing lives together for six months. Joan's nefarious scheme behind allowing her to stay had not yet revealed itself, and Vera had exhausted herself trying to uncover it. They had fallen into old routines. Vera appreciated Joan's sharp mind and acerbic commentary.

It was like when they'd shared Vera's home before. Except this time it was Vera who looked up expectantly to see Joan arrive home, ease her heels off and step into slippers.

This time Vera cooked an array of dishes in Joan's oven from recipes ripped out of the newspaper. If Joan favoured them (or not), she wasn't saying. But she ate each meal without complaint, sipping her biting beverages, while sitting across from Vera. Watching her. Always watching.

It had been unsettling at first. Now it was just who Joan was. Plucking apart Vera's soul, one chicken casserole at a time.

Vera hadn't yet sought out new work. She realised Corrections wasn't something that interested her at all now she was out of the cut and thrust of it.

She was more interested in her housemate: in all the ways she was fascinating and terrifying in equal measure.

She was, by the end of the sixth month, quite sure she would never fully work her out. Seeing Joan in her element was a revelation. She was just like any other woman, except for one thing. She didn't fully relax. Her walls stayed up at all times.

The only exception; the only time Vera got glimpses inside her was times like now. On the couch, engrossed in her fictional political thriller. What had she done before House of Cards came along, Vera wondered? Fed her goldfish, watered her plant and gone to bed?

At the thought of Joan in bed, Vera felt a familiar wash of heat. It was obscene, really, given all that Joan had put her through and all the ways she'd deliberately ruined her career.

But with one look, one tilt of an eyebrow, she could remind Vera of that night together. And part of her craved it like heroin.

Sometimes when she stared deep into the abyss, Vera was certain Joan wanted it, too. Which was absurd. Because Joan didn't want things; they were always part of the larger end goal. Or something along those lines.

How curious it must be living life with grand schemes for domination, rather than simple cravings.

"I like the Kevin Spacey version better," Vera said, lying through her teeth as she watched the screen. She knew Joan worshiped the UK version.

"Really, Vera," Joan drawled. She gave her vodka glass a little waggle and ice clinked pointedly. "Do you know what the problem with the American version is? He's too obvious. An obvious villain is easily caught."

"Joan, come on," Vera protested with a laugh. "You wear black gloves. You slither into rooms like a cat burglar. You do the whisper of doom thing. You're the most obvious villain ever. How can you, of all people, say that?"

The air shifted in an instant. Before Vera had even finished the sentence she realised she'd said something very, very wrong.

"You can leave now," Joan said flatly staring at the TV. "Pack and go."

Vera looked at her. Surely Joan wasn't serious? She studied the grim line of Joan's jaw and felt a shiver at the waves of arctic air coming off her.

She heard in the iciest of tones: "Are you deaf? Leave."

* * *

Vera moved out. She didn't have much. All her stuff at her Mum's place was in storage. It took five minutes to toss her things in a suitcase.

Joan didn't see her out. Didn't wave her off. Didn't say a word when Vera slid Joan's house key on the coffee table between them.

Nothing.

Vera disappeared to a small motel in the ass-end of Melbourne. The sort of place shattered every night by the wail of police or ambulance sirens. For some reason it seemed an adequate penance for foolishly having allowed herself to enjoy living with Joan Ferguson. For relishing her wit, intelligence and charisma.

The worst part about it was enjoying those things while knowing who Joan was and what she was capable of. Well she'd just gotten a huge bloody reminder. Vera wasn't special.

Joan was probably laughing her ass off at Vera's childish delusions that she actually mattered. What a joke. Joan didn't do friendship. She did schemes.

Vera cried for a month afterwards. Aching, horrible sobs that made her feel like she'd scrubbed her heart out. Was this what it had all been about? Joan had actually broken her after all, by making her care?

If that's what this had been about, Vera could only admire the utter ruthlessness of the woman.

And pity her empty soul.


	12. Personal

In the end $235 changed Vera's life. Well that and being the mastermind of a controversial prison program people still wanted to talk about.

She'd already paid $235 to attend the International Corrections and Crime-Management Professionals convention in Sydney before she'd been dumped as governor. The air tickets had already been supplied by the government. So, really, a free trip to Sydney for someone unemployed, aimless and freshly freed after homicide charges seemed like a good plan.

It was only halfway between the in-flight movie and ordering her chardonnay that it occurred to Vera that Wentworth's governor might also be in attendance at the conference.

"Can you bring me two?" she asked the flight attendant hoarsely, pointing at the wine. "Or, um, actually, three please."

_God, what had she been thinking going to this thing?_

* * *

The convention was in full swing, and between sessions she'd been learning about the ways in which the rest of the world locks up the underbellies of its societies.

She was holding fort with a New Zealander, an Englishman and a Norwegian – like some bad bar joke – who were peppering her with questions about her "One In, All In" system when a harried woman stormed past.

She then stopped, U-turned and peered at her. Listening. Then she smiled and interrupted.

"Ms Bennett? I thought that was you. May I have a word?"

Vera excused herself from her enthusiastic coterie of prison experts.

"I'm sorry, I don't believe we've met?" Vera said.

"No, no, we haven't but I know all about your work. And judging by those in your circle, you've been impressing some of the world's leading experts in corrections. Sorry, I'm Mary. Mary Bridges. Conference co-ordinator. And I have a bit of a problem.

"The keynote speaker from Belgium missed his connecting flight in Singapore. I was wondering… how would you like to fill his spot? I know it's short notice and so on, but One In, All In is all anyone's talking about."

Vera blinked. "I can't just do the keynote speech on the spot! I haven't prepared. I haven't…" she waved her hand.

"I know, I know. It's OK, I'd explain what happened, explain you're just going to have a casual chat with them for an hour…"

"Hour!"

"Or two.."

"TWO?!"

"It's better than empty air. And you're a valuable source of information. A lot of people want to know whether your system works. You don't need a big speech for that, surely? Just talk about what you've seen, take a few questions. Very informal."

"I don't know…"

"I'll make it very clear to the gathering you had no prep time. They won't judge. You're fascinating to them."

 _Fascinating_? _Her_? Vera had never in her life been called that word. She suddenly felt a foot taller. "OK," she exhaled. "Fine. When is it?"

The organiser glanced at her watch. "Can you be good to go in fifteen?"

Vera gave a half hysterical laugh and then nodded.

"You're a life saver. I'll make the announcement."

* * *

OK so it had been a pretty good speech. Vera, at least, had a lot of practice talking about the topic as she'd had to make the case to plenty of visiting dignitaries in her year in charge of Wentworth. At the end of the speech, the questions came. She answered them all honestly, directly, and at times with humour. She was just wrapping up when she heard a distinctive voice from the back of the room.

"If All In is so good, why isn't it in use in any prison in the world?"

Vera turned to see the imposing form of Joan Ferguson stepping out of the shadows. _How apt._

"The worth of a thing is not judged by _whether_ it's used, but how good it is _when_ it's in use. That's true for everything from pencil sharpeners to TVs ... and governors," Vera replied smoothly to a few chuckles.

"Even your former prison won't use it, will they?" Joan persisted.

A low murmuring began to spread throughout the room. Few attendees were aware of this little fact.

"Governor Ferguson," Vera said, drawing herself up to full height, "the reason it is not used at my former prison is because you made sure it was discontinued when you resumed working there. Even though statistics showed it was working and _very_ well, you threw it all out under a 'new broom' approach. It takes effort to make something good, and very little skill to tear it down."

Joan's eyes were glinting and she took several steps forward. "Actually, it was removed because of a class action against it. Breaches of prisoners' rights."

"Everyone in this room knows how often civil rights groups claim prisoners' rights are breached when in reality lawyers like to stir trouble to line their own pockets."

Many nods could be seen around the room.

"But in _this_ case," Vera continued, "perhaps the room might be interested to know how the class action came about? Would you like to share with your peers how the prisoners got it into their heads to sue? Whose idea it was?"

"Wait," a prison CEO from Brisbane asked, flicking his incredulous gaze between Joan and Vera, "are you saying that a _governor_ stirred up the legal vultures? Just to make trouble for your program? That's seriously effed up. We're all on the same side. Or we're supposed to be."

"I'm sure Ms Bennett isn't suggesting that's what happened," Joan said in a warning tone. "Are you?"

Vera stared at Joan, debating her answer, when the organiser, shooting them both worried looks, huffed out on stage.

"Well, I think that's all we have time for. Wasn't Ms Bennett a wonderful stand-in speaker? Really thought-provoking. Please give her a round of applause."

The applause was like thunder. Vera smiled graciously but her eyes slid back to the sly gaze of her predecessor. She exited the stage and headed straight for where Joan had been loitering. Only to discover she was nowhere to be found.

* * *

Vera finally caught up with her in the bathroom, washing her hands. For once, the male-dominated corrections hierarchy was a thing to be thankful for. No one else was in there.

"What the hell was that, Joan?" Vera demanded, closing the door behind her and leaning against it.

"You handled yourself well, Vera. Assertiveness becomes you," Joan drawled. "It's especially needed since you are spruiking a failed program and the room needed to be warned of its shortcomings."

"I wouldn't have had to 'handle' anything if you weren't being such an undermining asshole."

"Raising issues makes me an asshole does it?"

"My statistics stand on their own. The program _works_ , Joan, if only your ego would let you see it."

"The program is a lawsuit in the making."

"Sure, if you agitate for that to happen."

Joan threw the paper towel in the bin and reached into her handbag for hand sanitiser. She lathered it over her hands.

"If not me, then someone else would." Joan's eyes flicked back up to her.

"Do you really hate me so much?" Vera asked, perplexed. "Or do you just shit-stir a great idea for no reason?"

"Isn't it what villains do?" Joan shot her a withering look and then stalked out of the room. Her footsteps were measured, her face cool. But her hand slammed the door behind her so furiously it creaked on its frame.

" _Villains_?" Vera repeated staring after her.

 _That's_ what this was all about? One stupid throwaway line?

* * *

It took eighteen months, but Vera was back on track. She had done well for herself. She now tutored in criminal affairs in academia. People the world over asked her to speak about her "All In" system. She regularly toured justice conferences. She had fame, if not fortune. She had a reputation in the wider community thanks to her media attention from challenging the notions of how prisons should be run.

And now she had the book to go with the package. _Going All In_.

Her tome's launch was being held at a business book centre in the city. All the movers and shakers of the corrections industry would be there. Her publisher had seen to it. (And offered free booze, which helped.)

Vera gave a quick speech, summarising her work, offered some amusing anecdotes and then allowed those who were interested to seek signed copies.

She was making steady progress when a book plopped on her desk, and long fingers she'd recognise anywhere, tapped it.

"Make it out to 'Miss Ferguson, Wentworth's best governor'. Sign it 'Little Mouse'."

Vera slid her eyes up to see mischievous ones staring at her intently.

To anyone else Joan would seem haughty, but Vera could see, just around the eyes, a tightness that usually didn't exist. No one knew her micro expressions quite so well as Vera.

So. Joan was nervous. And a little pissed off.

Vera said nothing, flicking open the cover and wrote. She slapped it closed again, handed the book back and looked past Joan.

"Next!"

Joan hesitated, glowered – apparently at the abrupt dismissal – and then moved away. Vera watched out of the corner of her eye as Joan opened the book to read her words.

_Yes, you're a villain, Joan. But also a hero. You're many things, both terrible and brilliant. It's what makes you so human. And so very fascinating._

_Vera Bennett. (No longer a mouse, little or otherwise)_

"Hi, I'm Jason Hunter. Can you just sign it, please? No message. By the way I loved your speech you did last year in Wellington. Have you got any stats sheets I can show my CEO? I think I can talk him into trying All In. I think it'd be an ideal fit."

Vera's attention returned to her task. Without looking up again, she knew she was being watched. Studied. As was Joan's way.

She signed, smiled, made small talk and looked over her shoulder five minutes later. Joan was gone.

* * *

Wentworth's fiftieth anniversary was coming up. Every governor over the years was invited. Most were expected to decline, especially those dumped unceremoniously after a year, like Erica Davidson and Vera Bennett.

Vera had no qualms. She was now the most well-known star in the Australian corrections system, and just like returning to a high school reunion, she was going to show them all. To hell she was going to hide away as though she had anything to be ashamed of.

She would look them all in the eye – _Her_ in the eye – assume her most confident pose, and own it. It's what Joan would do in her place. (Not that Vera cared about that anymore, she told herself.)

'What would Ferguson do' was a saying she'd long since dispensed with as unnecessary.

Vera dressed to kill. High heels, a tight black skirt, a white shirt, and a black jacket. The closest thing to her Wentworth jacket she could find. She tried not to analyse that one too hard. The memories it brought back, though, she thought about a lot.

* * *

Vera had glimpses of Joan circulating before the ceremony. Tall, proud, strong, with more slivers of grey at her ears, the woman looked as impenetrable as ever.

She was as impressive a woman as Vera had ever seen. She had long ago stopped even caring that she felt this way; that it should be wrong to be impressed by such a woman. Every word she'd written in that book inscription was true. Joan was both terrible and brilliant. And she still fascinated Vera, down to the sub-atomic level.

She made her way from the dry speeches towards the bathrooms to freshen up, nodding as she went by at any familiar faces. She was in a deserted corridor when a former colleague rounded the corner.

"Linda Miles!" Vera's face split into a smile. "Are you still working here?"

"Yeah, yeah. We can't all be some shit-hot superstar on a rise up the slippery pole." Linda gave Vera a shit-eating grin.

"Fuck off, Linda," Vera teased.

"I see your mouth hasn't improved." The prison guard gave her a matching grin.

Vera laughed. "How's it been, though? Under Ferguson Mark 2."

Linda shrugged. "She's the usual. But quieter. Doesn't say as much to anyone."

"Did she ever?"

"Well she liked to play with us a bit, remind us of our place. You know that. Doesn't bother with the games as much now." Linda leaned closer, her voice dropping. "We think she's got someone. There's something going on with her to take her eye off us."

"A lover?" Vera gasped as a ball of jealousy erupted inside. "Are you kidding?"

"Why? Is that so bizarre? She's legal. She's not ugly. Hell, if I batted for your team, I'd give her the side-eye, too."

Vera froze.

"Oh come on, you think we didn't know?" Linda chuckled. "It's OK. _Everyone_ knew. Even Fletch and he was as dense as a black hole. We thought it was cute, your little old crush on the Freak."

"Don't call her that."

"Not so old a crush then?" Linda studied her curiously. "Well I s'pose you've missed your chance then. Sucks. When you two weren't trying to get each other thrown behind bars you were the perfect match."

"That's insane."

"Is it?" Linda peered at her. "Look, Vera, you're both a pair of don't-fit-in loners, anal up the wazoo, no friends, no family, no fun, can't keep your eyes off each other's asses. You were made for each other."

Vera stared at her. "She did not stare at my ass."

"How would you know? Got eyes back there? I notice you didn't deny that you stared at hers, though. Look I gotta go. Rounds. I'd offer to catch up for a beer but then you'd feel like you have to make an excuse to say no, so…"

"I'm not _that_ bad."

"Yeah you are. But it's OK. Takes all sorts. Just look at _her_ , if you ever doubt that. Good luck with everything."

"You, too, Linda."

The officer headed away and Vera resumed her journey, trying not to think about what she'd said. Ferguson wouldn't be seen dead looking at her ass. She was sure of it.

Before she'd realised it, she'd bypassed the bathrooms and found herself heading, on autopilot, on a very familiar route.

Vera came to a stop in front of the glass-windowed door of the Governor's office. Achingly familiar. And yet not.

Vera traced the letters… Governor Ferguson.

"Still mine, as you can see," a voice muttered in her ear.

Vera jumped almost a foot off the ground and turned to find the Governor. _How on earth had she sneaked up on her? Was she half cat?_

She forced a smile.

"I didn't think anyone else was up here."

"If you're here to break in and stake your claim on the desk, I assure you that won't be happening again any time soon."

The glittery smile sent a shiver down her spine.

"I never liked it as much as you," Vera admitted. "You were right about that."

"As I usually am."

Joan leaned forward, pulling a swipe card from her belt, and used it on the door. "But not always. After you."

She pushed the door open and stepped aside.

Vera headed in and looked around. She heard the soft click of the door closing. And a second click. The one she recognised as the door being locked.

She forced herself not to look at Joan and instead studied the room. Prisoner art was now gone from the walls, as was any signs of posters advertising the New Wentworth. Which made sense – the New Wentworth was only 'new' two years ago.

The hairs on the back of her neck stood up as Joan stepped inside her space.

"What do you want, Joan?" she asked, without turning.

Vera walked forward to the window to get some distance, and looked down at the courtyard. Some guests had spilled out into the exercise yard and were getting steadily merry.

"What do you think I want?

"I have no idea," Vera said. "I have no time for games anymore. Not even yours."

"Ah yes. The academic. So busy. How was the symposium in Tokyo last month? Are they ready to sign on to your Vera Bennett All-In System?"

"The Japanese liked it very much, but then their society is already geared that way. The group's needs outweigh the individual. I did a paper on it. I'd be happy to leave you a copy."

"I can't imagine the Americans were fans," Joan said, her voice lightly goading. "Their national identity is tied up with rugged individualism, is it not?"

"You'd be surprised. I'll email you my notes if you really give a crap. Which we both know you don't."

She said it more forcefully than she'd intended and turned to gentle her response. The words died in her throat when she found Joan right _there_.

Watching. Always watching.

Her breath caught.

"Never assume you know what I care about and don't," Joan said in soft warning.

"Well it's a safe bet that since you hate All In you won't want papers or emails on it."

"I read your book," Joan said, changing tack. "It was… so _you_."

"Let me guess? Silly. Ill-advised?" Vera rolled her eyes.

"Naïve. Hopeful. Optimistic. Questioning. Lower-case L liberal."

Vera turned. "You liked it?"

"I didn't say that."

"You hated it then?"

"I didn't say that either. I said it was 'you'. As for the inscription, that was the most unexpected part of the whole book."

"Joan," Vera said, relieved the opening had come up, "I'm so sorry you were hurt when I called you a villain. It was never my intention."

Joan's eyes hardened. "Don't be absurd. I don't get hurt so easily – even if it appears to be your aim in life these days."

" _My_ aim? What about you? And by the way I could have crushed you at any time and I didn't."

"What _are_ you talking about? No one has that power over me."

"The police wanted your name to charge you with stealing my morphine receipt and prescription."

"That's hardly 'crushing' someone." Joan shot her a mocking look.

"And that day you visited me in the cell? I knew you'd come by. I'd asked for a Dictaphone while I prepped my notes for the lawyer. I recorded our conversation. You confessed to hurting Spiteri. And Fletch. And Will. I had it all on tape. I could have destroyed you at any time, but I didn't. I _didn't_ crush you."

Joan stared at her for the longest time.

"And yet you did," she hissed. " _Crush_. Wilfully." The words were said with a soft fury.

"W-what? How?"

"You left me, Vera."

"I did not! You threw me out. _You_ told me to leave."

"Did it never occur to you that I was seeing whether you'd fight to stay?"

"No," Vera retorted. "Of course not. I don't play those games."

"And I am _not_ a villain," Joan hissed. "I'm on the side of right! I will always fight for _justice_."

"Your version of it."

"What other version is there?"

Vera gave her a helpless laugh. "God, listen to yourself. You're so lacking awareness at times, it's absurd."

"And you're simply _lacking_. I expect people to fight for what matters. Failure to do so is _weak_. Disappointing."

An insult died on Vera's tongue as she connected the dots. "Wait, you wanted me to fight for us? Joan, what were we?"

"I already explained. I _thought_ you understood. I told you quite clearly: I had _everything_ I required. I looked right at you. But instead of understanding, you ran away."

Vera inhaled. "Everything? You meant … me? I thought you meant the job. _That's_ why you wanted me to stay? It wasn't some big scheme? You just … _missed_ me?"

Joan peered at her. "I didn't realise you were this slow."

"Charming. Do you use that line on your girlfriend?"

"My what?"

"Your officers think you've taken a lover."

"My officers have the brains of a stunted gnat."

"So, you don't?"

"Do you?"

Vera shook her head. "I find people pale into comparison to the one who impressed me most in life. And, ironically, who hurt me most."

"That would be an interesting coincidence," Joan's eyes slowly slid down Vera's body, "If I was admitting to be being hurt, also. Which I'm not."

Vera almost smiled until Joan's next words dried her mouth.

"By the way, bold outfit, Vera," Joan drawled. "Wear it just for me?"

"Everything's about you, isn't it?" Vera meant it sarcastically. It came out weirdly honest.

Joan's fingers drifted to Vera's hairline, trailing down to her ear. "You're going grey. Corrections does that to a person. I know."

Vera faltered at the touch against her skin. "Don't, Joan. Don't touch me unless you mean it. Unless it's personal."

Joan's fingers paused for the longest moment and then pointedly continued to trail down to Vera's neck.

Vera held her breath at the implication.

"Why did you leave me?" Joan asked. "Why didn't you fight to stay? Did I mean so little? Do I mean nothing to you now?"

"I already explained: I don't play those games," she said. "I didn't realise you _wanted_ me to. Of course you don't mean nothing. That's impossible."

"Yet you were the one who told me the game wasn't over." Her fingers slid to the base of her neck. "Now you claim there was no game?"

"No! I didn't understand the game."

"Of course you did. You've been playing it with me from the day we met. You were my mouse. And we played. And then you scurried away from the big bad cat. The _villain_. Did you truly see me as so wicked? Do you think I let just anyone out of one of my traps? Yet I told you how to win your case.

"And do you think I let just anyone stay with me?" Joan continued.

"You said it was _business_."

"Getting my job back was business. I thought you understood the distinction."

"Joan… for god's sake…" Vera stared at her helplessly. "Shit."

"And here you are today… wearing that, for me. In my office. So what am I to think? What do you want? Is it just flesh? You wish to recreate the fantasy? The one from that night? The one that made you quiver and moan?"

Vera blushed hotly. Her eyes slid to the desk as she recalled the one she meant.

Joan laughed and it was that low, dirty sound that did funny things to her insides. "That's what I thought."

Vera found herself pushed, face first onto the desk, Joan's body pressed against her.

"If I recall," Joan taunted in her ear, "You liked it when I suggested I just wrench up your skirt…" she said, doing that roughly "And slide my hands…" Joan's fingers pulled down her stockings and cupped her ass, "inside."

Vera's panties were pushed aside and a single, long finger pressed between her intimate flesh.

"Joan," she whispered, feeling the finger stroking inside. "Oh god."

"That's it. So wet. Have you been thinking of this? Me taking you like this?"

"Yes. God. No."

"You seem unsure," Joan taunted her.

"No," Vera said. "No. Not like this."

The finger paused.

"How then?"

"Like our first time."

"In your mother's bedroom? A little kinky, but that house is sold."

"God no! At your home."

"I don't remember that time."

"You made love to me. That first time – you also let me touch you."

Joan took an eternity to move and finally slid off her. Vera twisted around and stood, wrenching her skirt back down. They stared at each other for a long time.

"I wasn't myself."

"I think you were. We didn't just have sex, and you enjoyed my touch. So my fantasy starts like this," Vera said. She leaned forward and kissed her. Joan's head reared back in shock.

"Too much? OK, then." She sank to her knees and slowly unzipped Joan's pants. She pulled them down her legs And ran her hands back up her firm thighs. Then she hooked her fingers in the black elastic above her pulled down her panties to her ankles.

"It ends here." She pressed her thumbs against Joan's lower lips, pulling them apart. She studied the wetness she found with satisfaction, and began to lick.

"No," Joan gasped. "No…I… Oh."

Vera pressed her tongue into the folds and began to suck at her, revelling in the taste of her. "So good," she mumbled against the softness. "You taste so beautiful. I've missed you. So much."

"Noo." Joan's hands raked through Vera's hair, pulling and tugging on it. Her fingers curled into her scalp, the pain arousing Vera even more.

Vera slid her finger into her as she also licked Joan's clit. It was larger than most, hooded and extended. It was the most glorious clit Vera could imagine. It was as imposing and erotic as Joan herself.

Joan's body thrust against her and Vera hung on for dear life. She suckled on her and impaled her with her fingers, revelling in her trembles.

"I want to hear you," Vera said. "Stop stifling yourself. Moan. Cry out!"

Joan stiffened at the instruction, her insolent, desire-hazed eyes sliding down to glare at her. Vera bit softly against her clit and the primal groan wrenched from her went straight to Vera's clenching centre. Joan moaned again, as though it was painful to do, and then came a rush of heated moisture that Vera lapped up.

She watched as the most fearsome officer to ever walk the halls of Wentworth suddenly quaked, her thighs twitching and then collapsed onto her knees beside Vera.

Vera gathered her in her arms, but was pushed aside.

"Joan?"

"Get out."

"Not this time. Not now. Never again."

"I don't want you. I don't want this."

"Really? Could have fooled me."

"I'm not you're pathetic little girlfriend."

"No, you're not. You're Joan. Who I care about. Who I deeply hurt by calling a villain. Who I cried over for two months when I had to leave her. Who followed my career for two years."

"Who got you arrested for murder."

"Who got me released."

"After I got what I wanted. After I'd won."

"After you'd won, sure. And yet it was personal."

"No. Never."

"Yes."

"I don't do personal."

"You just did."

"No. This was… it wasn't…"

"It wasn't business, Joan. It _had_ to be personal."

"It was just a fuck."

" _Joan_." Vera clucked at her obvious lie. Joan had the good grace to look away.

"Vera, whatever you think can come of this, I'm not what you imagine. I can never be whatever fantasy you have of me in your head."

"You forget I know you. I know all your secrets. I know where you hide your chocolate-chip ice cream that you hate being tempted by."

Joan glared at her.

"I know you snore."

"Lies."

"Adorable snoring."

"That's worse."

"I know you hurt people when you're hurting. I know you wear those green pants when you feel depressed. And you love dogs and wish you were allowed to have one at your apartment. Knowing you, you're probably working out how to sneak one in, in defiance of the strata bylaws."

"How on earth…"

"The game is finally over, Joan. It's done. Stop playing. Start living. You wanted there to be an 'us' once, even if you wouldn't name it. Well I do, too. Let's do it."

"I can't."

"You can."

"No."

"Why not?"

"It's not possible! Don't you understand? Are you hard of hearing?"

"Why. Not?"

"It's … I..."

"Joan?"

Brown eyes bored into her. "I'm afraid." Her lip curled in disdain. "Happy now?" She pushed herself back to her feet and angrily crossed to the far side of the room.

Vera fought not to react. "I know you are. Me, too. It's OK. It's human."

"I'm not…"

"Human?" Vera laughed. "Yeah, you are. You're just scarier than most. But you're fascinating as well. I guess that's why I love you."

That hung between them like an unburst grenade.

Vera blushed.

Joan walked to the window and looked outside. "I need to water my African violet," she said abruptly. "It's not… I think I forgot yesterday. I've had much on my mind. It's…" Her voice was halting.

"It's OK, no problem. We can go home and do that." She emphasised the 'we'.

"It's not... It's what it _means_ ," Joan snapped. "Standards are slipping. My standards _never_ slip. I don't allow it. I've become unfocused since you entered my life."

Her back was rigid.

"Hey," Vera said, walking over to her. "It's going to be OK."

"You _left_ me, Vera. You are as fickle as the day is long. You cannot be trusted with..."

_Her heart?_

Just once it'd be nice if Joan finished a sentence.

"That's not true," Vera said laying a hand on her back. "I thought you threw me aside. Damn you, I cried over you."

"You ... cried?"

"Yes, I was a bloody mess. But I came back. Not going anywhere. OK? I will always come back. I love you!"

She dared her to disagree.

"Vera," Joan ground out and then seemed at a loss as to what to say next.

Vera tilted her head up. "It's so bright in here. Your light? It's weird, isn't it? Shouldn't the sun be coming from over there? But it's everywhere. And so harsh."

"I don't think about that," Joan said firmly, pulling Vera's attention back to her. "I've discovered I'm happiest lately when I don't get diverted by details. It's so easy to get swallowed in them. On that note," she turned into Vera, "you are an unobjectionable housemate. You're right there should be an us. We are suited and attuned to each other. Come home with me."

"You want me to live with you?"

"Yes."

"As a housemate? _So_ romantic. Your delivery is..."

"Fine," Joan rolled her eyes. "Not just as a housemate."

"I swear if you call this business…" Vera folded her arms. "If you tell me two can live more cheaply than one, so help me I'm enrolling you in a wooing course."

Joan laughed then, low and rich and Vera felt her stomach do a half-pike with a somersault.

"God, Joan," Vera complained helplessly. "Stop doing that, you're crippling my ovaries."

"Did you really not understand that I bought that spare bed in my home especially for you? The way you like it? Extra firm? That I painted the room in your favourite colour? Myself? Did you miss all of this last time? Not to mention that hideous wine you prefer. It pained me to ask for so noxious a substance. I have a reputation after all."

Vera blinked at the revelations and was derailed when Joan smiled. Confident, controlled, dangerous. She would be her undoing, no doubt about it.

"Vera, it's obviously not business. Definitely not. It's personal."

She kissed her then, an abrupt, possessive touch of lips to her neck, cheek and finally her mouth. "And it's pleasure," her lips murmured against Vera. "Or it will be soon. Come home with me. And I'll show you."

"Show me what?" Vera asked breathlessly. Knowing, of course, but desperate to hear it.

"Why Vera," Joan husked. "Everything. You're not the only one capable of love. Even villains love too."

"You're not a villain. Or a freak. Or any of that."

Joan merely smiled. "Oh, my little mouse." She held out her hand which Vera took. "It's time to go. I'm ready now."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although I usually never say never, this is my last fic of any fandom, forever. It's time I focused on my books and fics have been splitting my focus. I've spent the past six months finishing them all off. Speaking of books, in August my freakytits AU novel, Requiem for Immortals (by me, Lee Winter) comes out. "Joan" is a professional cellist and secret assassin; "Vera" her target - a woman so innocent that Joan can't bring herself to kill her, or work out why she has been targeted. I hope you'll check it out. Thanks to all my fans and followers over the years. Feel free to say hi on Twitter @Leewinteroz.


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